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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626261">Starlight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/skelli/pseuds/skelli'>skelli</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mass Effect: Andromeda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:07:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>260,924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/skelli/pseuds/skelli</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>People like him are who allow Ryder to stay in his sparkling world of heroism and righteousness. How can Ryder look so clean without the stains of those filthier than him? They need each other.</p>
<p>Reyes doesn't need help finding reasons to get involved with the Pathfinder but he can't deny himself another if it's given to him. The law of attraction doesn't change across universes after all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Male Ryder | Scott/Reyes Vidal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>129</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Beginnings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(: I love Ryder. And I love seeing everyone's versions of him. </p>
<p>There will be a little tweaking of canon throughout this fic. I'm going to try for a multichapter piece between Ryder and Reyes. I'm writing as I do another play through. I'm having a lot of fun so I hope you enjoy too! Leave a comment!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's no news until there is news. At first it’s merely a trickle through the channels, a blurry shot here, an audio file with bad quality there and gossip, so much gossip. But finally he’s here. The Pathfinder. He’s aged with a hefty past of adversarial intentions and yet he’s got experience and the intelligence and equipment to make or break depending on the day. He’s a well-trained N7. Alec Ryder, the human Pathfinder and the only Pathfinder. He stands strong for his mission although some are saying he’s quick to rely on his own instinct and less so on any Nexus led protocol. Some say he isn’t here for the Initiative bred ideals at all. There are rumors about his motives. And then he’s gone. Just like that. A star in the galaxy, bright, explosive and then dark. </p>
<p>Another Ryder is given the title. He’s young, fresh and with his military background, he’s disciplined. Or conveniently indoctrinated for blind obedience to authority. Anyone can find his information with a simple search. A sister in biotics, a famous and brilliant scientist mother and a record so clean it’s shiny. No one’s trying to keep this Pathfinder from the public eye and rather, why should they? He’s pretty, looks good on paper, looks good in his pictures and responds well to orders. He’s the Initiative’s heaven sent angel. </p>
<p>An angel pulled down to a certain kind of pit in hell. And if angels used jump jets instead of wings. </p>
<p>His recon experience is appropriate for his newest set of duties. Work on bringing fruition to the radioactive shitstorm of a planet, Eos. With the rumors, he’s mostly just a joke to toss a drink back to. No way that kid’s going to get home alive let alone start a colony! He’ll go out with less of a bang than his father did. Classic director Tann pushing others off the cliff. </p>
<p>Not much more is said. Nothing to look at other than his cadet days’ pictures. Nothing to hope for until the Pathfinder literally finds the path. The fruit of Eden is sweet and still a little on the small side but it’s their fruit and it tastes like victory. Pathfinder information floods the networks starting with a video feed of Ryder shaking hands with the new mayor of Prodromos, Augustus Bradley, nose dirty with hard work, beaming in the sunshine with his Initiative chest emblem scratched up right across the middle. Eos is catching fire and the spark has glittering hazel eyes. </p>
<p>There’s excitement in the air now, albeit where Reyes Vidal sees it, it’s a violent and demanding one. More, they say, make the Pathfinder do more. Make it benefit me. Kadara is hungry, so hungry and Eos is looking tastier and tastier. Things are moving and that makes Reyes’ job all the more interesting. He’s enjoying the flow of material, and the contact behind the scenes with the Pathfinder team through one of their mercenaries, Vetra Nyx. Her official record is as clean as her Pathfinder’s but her name is known in the black markets. She has power. With Vetra’s companionship, Reyes’ men find their way to Prodromos in a timely manner. Still, her boundaries are tight; she won’t give away any classified information. Maybe the pay is that good. </p>
<p>He likes to look through the available information on Ryder when he wants to have a drink and not work. A shiny new toy with all his morals and rules. Who is the man behind the Initiative? What is he thinking behind all his discipline? Does he know where he really stands looking down on everyone? And does he know who he surrounds himself with?</p>
<p>Eos is pushing fresher food, mineral deposits, even a line of supplies and when everyone gets a taste a new life flushes even the desperately hopeless. The Tempest and the Pathfinder especially are gaining public favor faster than a math problem to a Salarian. Prodromos is promoting field work, establishing research teams and developing an economy. Vessels fly in and out in higher numbers every day. Whether the Pathfinder had any say in the direction of the outpost is unclear but it’s favorable for a bunch of scientists to be waiting rather than soldiers with guns. </p>
<p>Ryder’s team is a puzzle with pieces that look like they’re from completely different boxes. Nakmor Drack, a mercenary with a kill list longer than all the other members combined, looms like a big, intelligent, slap-talking bodyguard behind the Pathfinder’s shoulders. And Peebee, a chaotic genius creator who seems to be drawn more to the human than to any Initiative mission keeps a tight orbit of their ship. Ryder has something that’s pulling them all in and Reyes is determined to see it. </p>
<p>The next big wave of information hits when the Tempest makes direct contact with the Kett. The entire crew dead zones and for a while there is nothing but the audio files of Ryder’s clear and strong voice on the Initiative’s channels playing over and over again for morale. Even Vetra’s various channels go dark. When the next ping for the Tempest comes up on one of Reyes’ screens, the Pathfinder has met the Anagara and has been welcomed to the Golden City. Or has been taken hostage freely at another angle. </p>
<p>Keema Dohrgun sees her city on one of Reyes’ small monitors with the young man standing tall despite a gun to his back before Paaran Shie, Aya’s governor, and touches gently to the screen. He is diplomatic, patient and takes the Resistance’s aggression and suspicion with grace. Keema sighs, deeply emotional and the smuggler can feel her energy from his seat. </p>
<p>“So you’re keeping track of the Pathfinder.” She says finally. </p>
<p>“He might have a lot to offer.” Reyes replies, leaning back in his seat. They talk safely between each other because of what can go unsaid but communicated. Her glistening blue eyes glow in the dim light. She regards him and then looks back to the feed of Ryder being escorted up the steps of their shining sunny paradise. She knows of his offering of aid to the Resistance and ultimately to their universe. This is an old but publicly enjoyed feed. </p>
<p>“He lacks deception. Whether he can provide what he promises or not is left to the future.” Keema’s intelligent gaze is focused for her people and for now not on Reyes which he is thankful for. At this point Ryder is no more than a glittering star far off in their sky. And maybe not one for Kadara’s desperate wishes. “Anyone can be humble when naïve.” </p>
<p>“Well,” Reyes’ smile is loose, “It’s nice eating fruit with my breakfast and I enjoy a little wine here and there; he’s got a green thumb at the least.” Even if Director Tann, who is capable of a well-manufactured stony-hearted disdain towards anything not bending to his self-proclaimed leadership, feels he has the Pathfinder on a strict leash it is clear that he is not the root of the success for his team. He may or may not have Ryder in his pocket even if he’s wearing a uniform and that is as flavorful as finally tasting something akin to an orange after all the root plants Reyes has forced down recently. </p>
<p>“Maybe Aya will begin trade with Eos and ultimately the Nexus. We could see more than just some beginner’s crops. He could be a key to healing amongst many if he finds the right footing.” She replies, unaffected by his quip humor. As long as the benefits can lead back to Kadara, it will keep their attention.</p>
<p>Reyes looks into that shining face coming down the steps, sun on his brow and his beaming smile and feels a twist of something under his gut. But hey, Reyes Vidal isn’t a guy to rely on hope so he flips the screen off and stands up to fade into one of his codenames and see how well their trade circles are doing. To see where Sloane Kelly is lacking and to ultimately benefit. Keema is right about footing; it’s all about knowing when to leap. </p>
<p>The Tempest travels out to Voeld, a freezing, beaten down world of ancient and fading culture and survivors. In the swirling, never ending snow there are few on the ground with enough free time or desire to track the Initiative’s prized soldier through the winding mountains. Those on Voeld are mostly the Resistance and their mission is at the forefront of everything they stand for. The Nomad vanishes out into the never ending ice and snowstorms. </p>
<p>But the Pathfinder himself has a channel for his contact to the Nexus in order to keep track of his journey. Here there are videos, audio files and data mines of the Pathfinder’s missions. It is easy to slip past the security but Ryder writes as one would expect a military raised soldier to. It’s fact based, simple and straight forward. His pictures rarely include himself or his team members, helpful for recon and understanding the layout of the planets he’s visited. His work means for analysis and lacks a certain edge of subjugation towards the local inhabitants. He writes on history, culture. Only when someone else takes the photo does Ryder make an appearance. A shot of him scanning foreign minerals, him squatting to look at an abandoned data pad. But there’s one photo apart from the usual. </p>
<p>Ryder is standing just before a drop off in the snow. The mountains before him stretch tall and dark into the shadowed sky and the wind against the lenses of the camera and his armor are speckled with snowflakes. He’s clearly in his own world, a couple of fingers against his temple in thought or maybe conversation. Whoever took this photo is watching Ryder closely, even thoughtfully. Which team member is responsible for this shot? Even the lighting, the purple hue of darkness and snow speaks to an emotion. </p>
<p>The audio files are the Pathfinder’s voice but in the background his teammates voices, their casual conversation and comradery can be heard. In the below freezing temperatures his breathing is audible and gives an almost private, intimate sense to these reports. When he records a stumble or a comment back to his companions it makes him all the more human. He laughs easily and seems to enjoy hearing his team banter and talk. The sound of his jump jet, the clack of his armor clicking into place, him starting the engine to the Nomad. The Initiative’s poster boy has a sense of humor and a positive attitude on the field. There’s emotion lurking below his voice when he is not speaking to the universe. So he’s not a robot. Probably. </p>
<p>Everyone knows that the Pathfinder has had massive surgery and was stabilized thanks to his father’s AI, SAM when he was almost killed on the mission that took his leader. There’s conflict about the presence of AIs and if anyone can make that a headline, it’s Ryder. He wouldn’t be here without SAM and certainly seems to coexist just fine with another voice in his head. Whether he has a choice on the matter is a question worth exploring. What would it cost to acquire that technology? How much is the Pathfinder worth? </p>
<p>These thoughts flicker in and out of Reyes mind when he assesses his finances. They’re passing muses, amusing ideas to his wallet and stomach. He doesn’t feel bad for them nor should he. Adapting, reassessing, taking the opportunities when they come, that’s what’s kept him alive and fed. And that’s what allows Ryder to stay in his sparkling world of heroism and righteousness. How can Ryder look so clean without the stains of those filthier than him? They need each other. </p>
<p>The days go by. Sloane Kelly’s hostility towards the Nexus has caught new wind, breathing oxygen to old flames with the successes of the Initiative. Fighting breaks out between factions, thin splatters of blood and broken armor littering Kadara Ports. She has loyalty in the bleakness of hunger. Reyes lays low, keeping the Collective moving by careful eyes. </p>
<p>Ryder has infiltrated a Kett facility on Voeld. The transmissions are coming in with a semi-live feed that was demanded of the Initiative with the Pathfinder’s growing popularity. And with director Tann in charge, some expect no room for secrecy and hidden agendas. They don’t want to expose Ryder to danger but they sure want to know what he’s doing. They’ll <em>make</em> sure they know what he’s doing. </p>
<p>The sounds of bullets, electrically charged knives and quick communications are so exciting that the bars explode with energy. Drinks are being thrown around with the yelling at Ryder’s battle methods- almost risky, right to the face shotgun style of fighting- in contrast to his calm, collected directives and observations. He’s taken a shot to the shields countless times for teammates and doesn’t seem to be shying away from danger anytime soon. Kett blood splatters against mics, the pounding of Ryder’s heart almost audible and Reyes smiles from behind a Kadara spiced liquor. There isn’t any video feed available but even a cheaper, gravelly radio station is enough for those clawing for a victory they can call their own. Not even the most brittle, hardened Outcast is immune to a hatred and thirst for Kett blood. </p>
<p>Keema is listening quietly from her own corner. She feels too much to be present for celebration or even conversation. Ryder’s precise, determined means of infiltration lead him to find information on the first Anagara coerced to work with the Kett. He is innocent of the gravity of the files or to the emotional toll it takes on their kind. Jaal, his Resistance provided teammate, is hurt deeply. Still, Ryder takes special care of the files, sympathetic. The explosions of Kett equipment bring another roar to the bar, a round of shots flying through hands and being tossed back like no tomorrow. But with the Pathfinder moving like this, they’ll have so many tomorrows they won’t know what to do with them. </p>
<p>When the universe catches the newest outpost announcement on Voeld, a special fondness comes over the comms, especially those aligned with the concept of hope and redemption. Ryder’s voice is clear, and strong and common. He’s proud and yet humble. There is never anything less than ‘we’ from him. </p>
<p>“We’re exceeding expectations. We needed supplies, we found partners.” </p>
<p>His respect for the Angara knows no bounds. Keema may have labeled it naivety but he isn’t ignorant to respect. The outpost begins providing for the Resistance without issue. Water is cleaner than it’s ever been and those ice cubes? Crystal clear with a crisp refined taste of hope. Taerve Uni, together forward, is a shimmering glory and Ryder is giving the victory to everyone aligned with his team. </p>
<p>Beneath the noise, the transmissions, Director Tann eagerly reminds everyone of whose emblem their hero wears. </p>
<p>The Ex-Alliance, Initiative born hero with his charming smiles and glowing hospitality has two major outposts to his name, two planets brought back to growing fruition, and a future so bright sunglasses are at the top of the checklist. Angara feel hope they haven’t felt in what feels like eras. The winds on Voeld aren’t quite so biting and coming down for provisions doesn’t take moons. They eat better and the moral glows. Outlaws grit their teeth, smoldering in their conflict. To support the very leash that had almost strangled them in the tragedy on Nexus while Ryder wears the collar feels a betrayal to their suffering. They seethe and under some of their breaths they hold out with desire. Bring the Pathfinder here and let’s see him turn acid rain to wine. Or we’ll rip him to pieces for the next meal. Either way, we’ll find benefit from his blood or his sweat. </p>
<p>The newest video feed is taken by Liam down in the Voeld ice cave. Cold air paints everything blue and Ryder is leading, slowing as he examines the deep echoing cavern underneath the defeated Kett station. Old, foreign technology sits in waiting and Ryder’s hushed voice, careful not to make a disturbance, whispers, “It’s beautiful but what would make the Kett so focused on this place?” </p>
<p>An ancient AI comes to life at their presence. She speaks to them in lies and emotions. Her knowledge feels like a puzzle, if she has anything to really offer after so much time in isolation. Jaal is determined to make her value known. “It could have access to our history, unmeasurable information about our people!” His excitement, the shimmer of his eyes is caught when Liam brings the lens across him and to the Pathfinder. “We cannot lose this opportunity!” She has been connected to a deep, deep grid of power on Voeld. She has time known to so few. Reyes knows this isn’t simply another recon update, a message to the number of Kett that have fallen to ‘justice.’ This is business. </p>
<p>Ryder considers this; he doesn’t make decisions simply by the power of his position. Cora stands by him at his shoulder, shifting her gun back into its holster. Her calm, collected manner of assessing situations mirrors her Pathfinder’s and they turn as an Angaran soldiers threaten to take the AI back by force, not having come to a choice yet, in surprise. </p>
<p>At the Angaran soldier rushing her, the AI threatens everyone and then ultimately punishes his brashness with his death. Ryder’s anger, righteous and reasonable, flares at the cost of a life needlessly. </p>
<p>“You didn’t have to do that.” </p>
<p>“Consider it… a warning.” Her voice lilts on the last word, possibly contemplative and yet there can be interpreted a layer of pride, of courageous defiance. The air is crackling with the temperature, settling heavily between the joints of their suits without any heaters in the vicinity. Ryder rises with some resistance, his hand lingering on the fallen Angara. </p>
<p>“Let me go with SAM.” She pleads and if Reyes doesn’t know any better he truly thinks he can hear emotion. Desperation, fear, even the word ‘scared’ sounds honest, vulnerable. Was her time alone enough for her algorithms to mimic tone perfectly or is her consciousness genuine and personal? His hand grips the energy pack he has been offhandedly drinking tighter. What he could do with an AI of such power… of such knowledge. </p>
<p>Jaal reasons, “This is no time for boarders. We can <em>share</em> her.” </p>
<p>Ryder’s hands move, squeezing away the cold creeping into his fingers. “Alright,” He concedes after another moment, possibly due to a brief conversation with SAM. “Liam, Jaal, prepare her for transport to Tempest. At least the Kett didn’t get to her.” He turns, beginning a communications message from the screen on his forearm and Liam lowers the camera, the video cutting at a shot of his boots. </p>
<p>Reyes brings the straw to his mouth still staring at the finished video, processing the information. He leans back, tosses the empty cartridge into the trashcan in the back corner of the room and could almost laugh at his luck. Decrypting and hacking has never gone without benefit and once again the skills are paying off. If he can get his hands on that AI in the Pathfinder’s possession, he won’t have to take the one from Ryder’s head firstly (making him a pretty big target of the Initiative) and might lower his chances of failing (and getting himself killed by that sleek, heavy hitting shotgun that the Pathfinder loves so much.)</p>
<p>He quickly logs out of the files, hoping he hasn’t stayed too long for them to trace the signal to Kardara. Not that they will find him in the bramble of hackers in the thorny society here but he wants the highest element of surprise. At the very least he doesn’t want to add to the level of suspicion if he can help it. </p>
<p>The amount of man power he spends in order to create traceless communication channels, and viable fake passports as well as scanning and debugging security for his Collective stops holding a candle to his bank if he can get his own special, bitter and suspicious version of SAM. She seems made for him; brutal and aggressive, mistreated and willing to punish for her past wrongs. If the Pathfinder wasn’t already bringing him his shadowed throne, he is now. </p>
<p>Keema finds her way to his office and leans in the doorway, the light of an orange, glowing sunset settling against her shoulders. “You seem to be in a good mood.” She comments. He likes the way the light shines here, similar in many ways to Earth although the orange burns a little harsher and the red seems more violent. </p>
<p>“What could better my mood than seeing you?” He smiles, swiveling in his chair in order to see her expression. </p>
<p>Amusement briefly passes by her and she steps inside, letting the door slide closed. “I think there is something even better than my presence going on.” </p>
<p>Sharp as ever, Keema. “What doesn’t get past you?” He chuckles, folding his hands in his lap. There is risk to telling her the truth, or at least to giving her his details. He knows she will understand if he is not completely forthcoming but she can see and feel the shift in the air. Looking to the darkened screen, he examines his own reflection and he says, “I think I may have found another reason to hope the Pathfinder finds his way to Kadara.” </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>Despite improvement across the whole of Voeld, the leader of the Resistance, Evfra, doesn’t trust the Pathfinder. Maybe that is why Jaal, a strong and capable soldier, is by Ryder’s side: to understand his intentions, an eye on the inside where glossy, prepackaged Initiative words are peeled back to expose their vulnerabilities (or teeth.) Time is of the essence both to make progress and to prove point; The Tempest beams out to Havarl in order to provide any assistance necessary to the ancestral home of the Angara. (And probably to see how Ryder handles more diplomacy in high risk situations amongst the Angara.)</p>
<p>Meeting Kiiran Dals, the lead scientist at Daar Pelaav, Ryder learns of the research on Havarl and ultimately of the truly wide reach of the Moshae. In the Roekaar inhabited territory, it becomes apparent that Ryder is still rather unwelcome and, at the least, distrusted. He’s vulnerable out in the overgrown jungles to bullets and fangs. But they will let him risk his life for their valuable research and their people. </p>
<p>“Watch out for the Roekaar, fanatics who hate aliens.” Jaal warns mildly, “That means you.”</p>
<p>Ryder seems unfazed, replying, “Charming.” As he rustles through the overgrown vines, stepping across deeply embedded tree roots. Liam has taken to video recording more of their time spent on field. He believes it will help prove a point that Milky Way aliens have good intentions through and through. Plus, he likes editing music overtop the video. </p>
<p>Saving invaluable Angaran scientists from one of the monoliths develops a trust between the Pathfinder’s team and Kiiran who tells them of the issues with the vault and ultimately Havarl. Uncontrolled mutations in organic life, an ecosystem crumbling and whispering promises to pull you down to feed you to its soil, it’s all in a day’s work for the Pathfinder. And aliens on the surface who appear to look like Turians is an added piece of information.</p>
<p>Vetra, Jaal and Ryder find themselves fighting side by side with Avitus Rix, a retired Spectre, and a member of the fallen Ark, Natanus which was hit by the Scourge. There is both awe at the resilience of the Turians and a contained hope for Macen, their Pathfinder, who has yet to pass his SAM to Avitus by loss of his life. A journey that has been largely uphill, Ryder must go on and although he assists with scattered Turian equipment and debris, he has little time for rest elsewise the vines might crawl up and yank him into the darkest corners of the jungle. </p>
<p>The pictures from atop the monolith are breathtaking. Swirling low clouds coiling around the healthy, flourishing tops of green trees and the glittering wings of giant insect-like species gleam under the beaming light for the vault. Although there is immediate shock, even horror at the Pathfinder’s arrival to Mithrava by the sages, Ryder’s mission for Havarl reaches their hearts. They allow him a space to pray before their memorial for Zorai to bring good luck and he is even handed the pipe of sweet, sweet Angaran tobacco that almost knocks him on his back. An evening is spent amongst the sages, Ryder’s residual dizziness and weightlessness keeping him grounded. It is good for Jaal to be about his own even if he was not as gifted a learner by the Moshae and is more forward thinking than not. The ancient ideas are comforting in their own way. </p>
<p>Vetra is smartly learning how they use certain leaves, and how their tobacco is ground with a special tool. Her eyes follow everything with reserved, keen intention. Peebee is still wandering the floors below them, sending messages to Ryder mostly out of his protocol request. First Sage Esmus tells them stories of Zorai and the flourishing home land of Havarl from years past. He tells of a powerful connection between their psyches and memories that fall like raindrops to each newly born Angara. They reincarnate and find each other in a new life tied by cultural wealth. Finding the gauntlet of Zorai tells of a strong Angaran warrior, of past struggles and voices lost across time. </p>
<p>They take the gauntlet to Taavos, a member of the Roekaar and fight their way into his camp across the windy sky bridge where Ryder’s shields take a shot from a sniper that almost punctures his stomach. He’s bruised but they make contact, imploring to Taavos that he is a necessary force in healing Havarl and giving the Angaran race means to stand against the Kett and the hurt their universe has endured. </p>
<p>Pictures of inside the vault have yet to be released to the public. Without a high functioning system like SAM it is not possible to activate anything even doors. Ryder and his team make way down into the vault without eyes to follow them inside. Havarl will live for many new moons. </p>
<p>The ominous glow in the skies fades into the loveliest shades, pink, purples, blues and sparkles with new stars, comforting now that safety has been reclaimed. Society can move forward and so can research.</p>
<p>Initiative funded scientists find a welcoming tent to begin bringing supplies and fresh eyes for their efforts. The Roekaar fade into the jungles just as the poisonous plant life wither. But a sense of danger still lingers. There is still one last large camp lurking, waiting for an opportunity to strike any alien and those forgiving of their presence. </p>
<p>Ryder takes one of these strikes and it takes blood. A sniper from between the trees picking just the moment that the Initiative suit shields take to regenerate fires a bullet clean through Ryder’s left shoulder, shattering the armor plate. Mere inches from obliterating a foundation of hope and still effectively sending a sobering shock through his team and his body. </p>
<p>Drack pummels the Roekaar soldier and bends the gun like a pretzel in his frustration, Jaal coming quickly to Ryder’s side. But the mission continues. SAM keeps the adrenaline high, the pain subdued and Ryder keeps his focus. He can’t leave the files with information on how to poison a natural environment, how to mimic the vaults going haywire left to the chaos of potential. With the issues on the Nexus and the history Ryder knew, Drack knew, and Jaal knew, all different means to get to the same unstable ground, terrifying power lay in knowing or not knowing things. Roekaar data deleted, Havarl’s soul tended, Voeld warming, Ryder earns himself enough trust by Evfra for debriefing on the mission for the Moshae and a moments rest before it. </p>
<p>The Tempest returns to the Nexus. Word gets out that the Pathfinder has been wounded on the field. False information spreads like wildfire in the sensationalism of it. How do we know he isn’t actually SAM itself? A thread demanding to see the color of Ryder’s blood fills the gossip channels. Are they keeping the extent of the injury to themselves? Wouldn’t it be just like Director Tann to hide away how terrible the situation could be. Our only living Pathfinder could die! A message from the Tempest settles some of the details that were being speculated. The ship’s doctor, Lexi files it in a clear and calm tone. One that may have included a bit of an order for Ryder himself. </p>
<p>“The Pathfinder has taken a non-lethal bullet for the sake of a mission. Healing takes time and the best tools we have are in play. Bedrest will return Ryder to full health.” This message is sent to Director Tann who in turn relays it. It’s public knowledge now and there are buyers in search of this iconic bullet. Mostly, a relieved chuckle is shared at Ryder’s expense. Sounds like someone got a scolding. The air clears. And grounding such a vital piece moving through Andromeda stirs up a new cloud. William Spender, Addison’s assistant, a name not said fondly in many mouths, has left a string to tie him, a situation, to Kadara (and to other foul things.) It pings on the screens of several hackers and comes trickling around. Something wasn’t deleted correctly. </p>
<p>Reyes tuts. It’s never good to half ass do a job. Especially when people don’t like you. There is a new mission file. Something that brings just a bit of fondness and plenty of anticipation to his little black heart. A file labeled 'Kadara' in Ryder’s folders. It's no skin off Reyes back to have certain demons come to light so he mentally gives Spender’s fuck up a big thank you. </p>
<p>The Pathfinder will be making his way to Kadara soon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A First Meeting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kett ambitions become clear and the Pathfinder makes his way to Kadara for a meeting with a charming stranger.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A bit of a longer chapter this time. As this fic progresses some minor tweaking of canon details will come into play as well as interpretation of canon points, possibly timelines and characters. But that might be a given, haha. Anyways, hope you enjoy and leave a comment!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A few more weeks pass before the Tempest takes flight again. While the technology to heal flesh wounds has greatly advanced, the human body is capable of only so much. Intellectually, past the stars, physically, about sixty years with almost guaranteed back pain. And anyone can take bets to how honestly Ryder kept his bedrest order. </p><p>She first takes a trip to Eos to check on Prodromos. The skies look bright even if the Kett still pose a viable threat in the deserts but how things are flourishing! A visit from their Pathfinder makes it all the better. Several interviews prove Ryder’s return to good health and if that isn’t a new and obviously improved suit he’s wearing. Kett reinforced plating! Quite the statement. Holding his helmet in the fresh air, he looks a little paler than usual, possibly from the time spent indoors but his smile is genuine. A fresh scar has settled just at his jawline. </p><p>Cora has been given news of a lead on the Asari Ark and a brave soldier Hydaria with vital information. That is the highest likely reason for the Tempest to find time while the Moshae’s fate hangs in the balance and the suspicious, yawning dark truths of the Nexus come into light (although there are multitudes of viable jobs the Pathfinder will never say no to.) Whether the lead, which comes forth rather brief and conservative to the local channels, is a beacon of hope or a tear in a wound about to come open is yet to be seen. </p><p>Eyes from the Collective gather intel in the open sunshine. While mercenary Drack can tell a boy’s up to no good, he’s got no interest catching sunrays unnecessarily. Sunglasses on, stolen uniform secure and no thousand-year-old soldier looking, a few men just watch and listen as the Pathfinder gathers his new intel. Liam certainly isn’t looking for danger, assessing the dirt for the perfect place a soccer field can go, his voice carrying through the comms in the background. Cora is still with Hydaria.</p><p> “He’s just taking notes. It’s a little boring.”</p><p>“Not a bad pastime. We got a few hours till we leave anyway.” </p><p>They converse, one chewing the final bits of a honeyed candy off a stick. </p><p>“Anyways, food’s much better here. Gotta pick up lunch before we go. They got meat that’s actually meat. None of that mystery space meatloaf that is hells knows what.”</p><p>“You’re always thinking about your stomach.”</p><p>“It’s how you feed the mind.”</p><p>“Ha! If you had one. Oh, he’s on the move.” They shift off the railings, shedding the stick and slipping their caps back on. Pulling his collar closer to his mouth, the second agent murmurs, “He’s heading to the Nomad. Sounds like he has intention to do recon on the Kett.” </p><p>Fortifying Prodromos seems to be a clear forefront mission. If the word multitasker had someone’s picture next to it, it would be Ryder’s. Jaal must be making efforts with Evfra to secure the Pathfinder’s team in the mission for the Moshae. Maybe this is what a Pathfinder calls free time. </p><p>“Let’s just let the reporter do her job. Have lunch, we all know I wish it were me there.” Reyes tells his men who can prioritize several other things to bring back home than some good shots of Drack exploding heads and Ryder’s valiant team for some creds. Keri’s people are down here on Eos after hearing about the contact to the Tempest from Bradley. Seismic activity, drilling, the environment. All good stories for a journalist with a moral code. And if she catches something interesting on camera… all the better for her wallet and ratings.</p><p>There sits one large, roaring Kett station still fully functional across several high cliffs and plateaus of dry rock. The pictures are resounding; Kett have a sense of symmetry, an insect-like pattern, folding and wrapping and shimmering with shields as wings and outer shells. The thrumming guts of the towering slice of hell are protected by a classic dome but do nothing to hide the threat or the voice that booms out. </p><p>“I am Invictor! I would threaten to kill captors but I’ve kept none to kill! Let that be your warning!” </p><p>Comically villainous and yet equally blood chilling. They are not empty words. One <em>could</em> laugh if the Kett hadn’t been so irreversibly damaging and we all didn’t stand on the bones of victims whose names are now lost in the sands. The Pathfinder’s pictures are taken for angles of weakness in the fortress. Keri’s photographer’s angles are about impact. It’s a little yin and yang. The threat looms like a storm cloud promising no rain and all thunder. Eos is a sitting duck waiting for Invictor’s ravenous appetite for violence to spill out into their valley. </p><p>But Ryder’s taken out one Kett station already. Optimism runs through his blood. A few days are spent with his team, including Vetra, Drack and Jaal as well as Cora mapping out the facility. He makes contact with an Outlaw, an exile who has been living on the outskirts picking off the outer Kett defenses methodically. The Pathfinder with his righteous, honest mindset has been largely anti-corruption, anti-chaos. He keeps his opinions to himself and yet sometimes a moral greyness, a sense that he may not just be a lap dog for Director Tann’s critical judgement comes clear. Maybe he’s aware of what the cliff off society feels like. Why trust any of the exiles? It’s not in the military code, it’s not like a good soldier to go against his uniform. Is it weakness? Blind faith in humanity? </p><p>Keri’s drones fly out when gunshots and explosions echo across the valley over the walls of Eos. Ryder has infiltrated the first line of defenses. He blends well with his new suit, moving quick and effortlessly between covers. There’s another party member taking head shots, nameless with a steady hand. He isn’t from the Tempest. Making sure to keep a safe distance, Keri reports on the action. How far they have come since that first crackling station listening in on the Pathfinder’s coming glory. Soon they’ll be watching him in HD. </p><p>Portable screens come up in bars and for gatherings like some sort of sports viewing. They drink to the killing of Kett and cheer for bloodshed. Political nuance and detail aside, they like seeing a sturdy young man roll across a blind spot for the snipers, jump to position with shotgun in hand and tear open the skull of an unsuspecting terrorist. His visor glistening with blood and his hands nimbly reloading over the lifeless body of his count. </p><p>When the shields go down, the entire population of Kett are thrown into a manic rage. Reckless abandon at their impenetrable penetration and downfall. Littering the pathways, folded over the barriers and railings, their brothers insist a hopeless struggle. Before Keri’s camera loses focus on him and he disappears into the depths of the station, Ryder rolls his shoulder and then flashes a big thumbs-up. </p><p>The Pathfinder once again has saved the planet from hostility. Invictor, shredded from their battle, rots in his gutted palace for war and Ryder comes out with intel, a victory and a mysterious new friend. Bringing this kind of peace to Eos is great relief, one so powerful that their forces can begin to focus on revitalizing the planet and not just keeping up with damage control. </p><p>Back at Prodromos, Keri’s beaming face is ready to put Ryder’s on camera. He tells of the importance of protecting their outpost not just for the Initiative but for the universe. ‘For everyone.’ He doesn’t linger in the violence and has cleaned the carnage from his armor before giving the channel his attention. It’s all very hopeful, either well-crafted or simply heroically appropriate. Pulling the camera focus off himself, he indicates to a mercenary holding back with Drack and gives the credit to him. Bain Massani, one of ‘Tann’s scary exiles’ and a self-proclaimed Kett hunter. Ryder either formally ignores the mutiny or refuses to make it the main point; ‘We’re stronger together.’ This could speak volumes to the possible rift between Nexus and their leading soldier and to the message to those who have been forsaken in the name of ‘obligation to order.’ </p><p>“Without Bain, we would have needed to gather a lot more intel. The timely infiltration was a success thanks to his preparation and recon abilities.” Ryder says, making clear eye contact with the now mercenary and former private security. Admiration for a planet hopping exile, Pathfinder? Reyes gives him the benefit of being human, Ryder’s father fits very snuggly in a similar category. Daddy issues are typical, even normal. And for him, all the more convenient. </p><p>“You did right by the outpost, little duck. And you’ve got talent with that shotgun. I’d take you up for Kett killing anytime.” Bain claps him on the arm in a friendly comradery. </p><p>Ryder groans, those about laughing, “That is <em>seriously</em> the worst nickname.” </p><p>Keri signs off, giving her final comments about the safety of Eos with the Kett now gone and her leading questions to the integrity of their plans to keep it that way environmentally. Reyes knows now there is an opening. Whether it truly is simply a faith in humanity, a trust in decency beneath bad decisions and things gone wrong, or that he has a personal preference, a draw to those walking their own path despite authority (no matter the cause: his father who clearly yanked his family through rings for his own motives or that opposites attract and he sees something in those so different than him) Reyes knows he has a chance to approach the Pathfinder and not be rejected. He may even be welcomed. </p><p>The Pathfinder and his team stay to provide support in case something unpredictable happens in the event the seismic activity is more than just natural causes. Knowing this universe and their luck, it’s never simply just an ‘earthquake.’ Does Ryder ever slow down? The theories on him being a robot seem like a rightful passage when he works non-stop. Where’s the chink in the armor? Besides the one blasted through him back on Havarl. Catch Ryder nodding off and you can earn yourself a thousand credits. </p><p>Duty calls Reyes Vidal’s name and he supposes he has time to answer. A carrier ship pledged by Angaran people has gone missing on its journey from Voeld to Kadara. And being those are few and far between, its value is painfully felt. Keema knows how hard it is for any member of the Resistance to take chances coming to Kadara Port for exchange; the journey is treacherous with Kett warships reigning strong through the stars and its distance proves that only the best information and trade is worth the risk. She has had word with these Angara before their contact was lost. She knows they take risk of being abandoned by Evfra for their presence on Kadara and the silence on their comms hurts her deeply. </p><p>“Don’t you suppose, possibly, Vidal, that the ship was lost to the Scourge?” Zia Cordier says coolly over her drink, her eyes accusingly cold. She agreed to meet, she didn’t agree to be cordial. </p><p>“I like to keep my thinking optimistic.” He replies, knowing that even if members of the Outcast are watching, Sloane Kelly doesn’t care what kind of company he keeps in the evening. Their contact is nothing more than two slums slumming it up and to her pinching attention span, he doesn’t always catch her eye. He thrives on being underestimated in these situations. Nothing more than another annoying thing that won’t die under her boot when she tries to step on him. Their table is semi-private, against the club wall in the back so that their conversation doesn’t get drowned out by the bass.  </p><p>“You like to see what kind of information you can pull from me.” </p><p>“Is that any way to enjoy a drink?” He chides playfully, watching those on the dance floor twist and wrap themselves around each other, minds possibly buzzing with alcohol or worse, from Oblivion. The tables have a shaded quality here, keeping those who want to look on or keep convert conversation bathed in shadow. </p><p>“A drink you haven’t even offered to pay for?” She tosses hers back, knowing that it’ll be finished one way or another and that Reyes has good taste not to be wasted. Having to account for the possibility of good Angaran soldiers and informants no longer fighting the good fight as well as the possible damage to the Charlatan’s reliability makes him focused. </p><p>“You know I’m good for it.” </p><p>Their eyes meet, the hardness between her eyebrows smoothing. A splash of good old fashioned tequila will soften anyone. And rather, even if she tells him nothing of the Resistance ship, saying nothing is in itself saying something.</p><p>“No news is just no news.” She then sneers, “Maybe someone got the upper hand on you.” Throwing an arm across the back of the seat, she runs her free hand through her glimmering red hair, almost purple in the light. </p><p>Reyes sips his drink, reflecting on this. It’s possible the Scourge hit this ship but most make deliberate contact before being consumed. With the right pilot evasion isn’t out of the cards. The Tempest proved that. Reyes rolls another splash of tequila through his mouth. If these Angara had anything of value it isn’t against the bottom feeding terrorists to kill for those credits… </p><p>“You’re really thinking about this ship.” Zia hums, leaning forward onto the table, eyes taking on a glow. </p><p>“It’s never good to have something as unpredictable as the Scourge on a flight path.” He replies, aware she will not suspect much more from a fellow smuggler. It does smother that hungry stare and she leans back. </p><p>“You know, the Kett could have something to do with it. Who knows what happens to the unlucky bastards who get taken out by those ugly fucks.” Zia sighs, frustrated. Maybe not by her sympathies, because she lacks such qualities but something possibly adjacent. “They’re like locusts. Can’t keep anything from being eaten up!” Ah, yes, the loss of profit. Well, Reyes can relate. “I’m going to get another drink. Don’t you dare fucking leave.” She says, slipping past him and into the throng of people towards the bar. </p><p>He can almost laugh. She can’t stand to see him stay and can’t stand to see him go. Or maybe she’s also looking for a hole to pull open his bag of figurative grain and bleed him dry. He doesn’t mind that quality though. Throwing back his tequila, Reyes stands and heads for the door. There isn’t anything more useful here other than knowing now Zia is still entertaining their contact and doesn’t know enough about what he’s interested in. </p><p>Pathfinder videos have become a sort of pastime. Kian Dagher in Tartarus appreciates the investment his screens are bringing back to him. The earthquakes on Eos are discovered to actually be an Architect and a nearby recon soldier finds a safe place to record Ryder face off with it. </p><p>Rippling energy that cripples shields using gravity and electricity explode sand everywhere, followed by small but powerful grenades as the living machine echoes a destructive yawning voice into the bright sky. Ryder looks small next to it. Hell, even Drack doesn’t look much bigger. Pounding through the legs, taking cover behind remnant walls and structures, Ryder relies on his own set of sticking grenades and concussive shots. Unsurprisingly, he has a good arm. Maybe in another life the kid would have been a baseball player. </p><p>There are a few times even with his jump jet that the force of the blasts catches him off guard and almost tangle his legs. But he’s quick to recover, making sure to keep his back covered. Learning fast, Ryder. </p><p>The Architect collapsing down before the Pathfinder was as Goliath was to David. Seemingly impossible and yet wondrously inevitable and the perfect underdog story. Shoulders heaving, Ryder approaches careful but clearly excited. He turns to Drack several times over and the mercenary claps him on the shoulder. Vetra nods in approval as Ryder raises a hand and seems to communicate with it. Hacking? A transmission? But the Architect responds and spirals up first into the air and then straight out of sight.  </p><p>If Ryder takes out any more danger on Eos it might just become the next garden of Eden. </p><p>The ship with the Angara who were travelling to Kadara is found discarded in the badlands with hardly even a trace of a struggle. A new faction of “the disappeared” for the endless list of those lost without knowing why or how. Reyes has the ship searched but even the basics are gone. There is nothing left but the visuals that don’t look like the clawing hands of another vicious thief. Keema grieves and then curses. </p><p>A line from Zia pops up on his screen. </p><p>&gt;Fuck you.&lt;</p><p>“Not today...” He murmurs, not surprised by the hostility. They both know now he was calling her bluff, prodding to see if she has been involved. She’s been threatening to cripple his operation since a joint job where he profited her profits. Her anger is as typical as someone throwing the table for cheating at cards. If you don’t know how to win then don’t sit down. But he knows eventually her bitterness will rise to action and leaving her the other night doesn’t help his score.</p><p>Weighing the benefit, he types up a message, &gt;You’re as sweet as the day we met.&lt;</p><p>&gt;You’re going to regret fucking people over someday.&lt; </p><p>Sleeping with another agent in the midst of a chaotic scramble for resources makes for bad foreplay. Kissing on each other’s loneliness beneath the covers and achieving that sweet, sweet peak with someone else pales to one’s own hand in a dank, sad little room knowing starvation is just around the corner. Keeping personal and business separate is always simpler though when desperation isn’t clinging to your legs, holding you down, convincing you this night might be one of your last and it isn’t a walk through paradise. Her arms around him and his weight on top of her, they weren’t exclusive. She was probably as much in her own thoughts as he was. The only real thing was the warmth… and the orgasm. </p><p>Keema contacts him and says she knows of an Angara who has some knowledge of the recent ship’s downfall. She wants to know where they are and if they’ll talk. That information could be vital and expensive. </p><p>&gt;Let’s make up.&lt; He sends to Zia hoping she is merely disgusted by the other night and not really teetering dangerously on the edge of vengeful yet. He’s had his share of aggravated exes and she fits the bill for a tire slashing, cigarette flicking, tear-up-your-room and invite retaliation badass. Good for staking a place in Kadara Port, bad for laying low and avoiding drama.</p><p>Keema sends him the second name of the Angara, ‘Terev.’ Now to find his first name and to put him in his pocket. What could be his secrets? </p><p>Pathfinder Ryder leaves for Voeld. Commander Heckt of the Resistance meets his team and they come together for a joint mission to infiltrate one of the largest Kett facilities known to Angaran land. This team led by Heckt has liberated other Kett camps, freeing their people and knows much of Kett defense. Owwin, a kind and simple soldier with a smooth accent lightens the mood with his comments and Skaelv keeps everyone focused with her quick intelligence and ability. The mission is to be invasive and as quiet as possible so when several ships take flight in order to provide the proper backup and support to the main unit with Ryder, everything goes eerily quiet and still.</p><p>When things come back online, they explode, the still before the storm. The truth behind the Kett, the inner workings of the facilities, the chosen Angara who have never been seen again or now, as they know, have been seen but never recognized, and the power of the Archon. Nothing has seemed grimmer than knowing the blood on everyone’s hands has actually been Angaran disguised as Kett. How many cycles of lives have been lost forever? How many memories, warriors, scholars, how much of their culture and information sits with an overlord determined to subjugate every single living being in the galaxy and obliterate their unique perspectives for blind obedience? </p><p>‘Pain is harmony. You are chosen by the Archon. It is a gift to be given the exalted DNA of the Archon.’ The Cardinal’s voice rings through Angaran camps and smothers any good will, suffocating hope of seeing those vanished ever again. Fighting erupts, blind rage and hopelessness fueling self-destructive drinking and charged words. Saving the Moshae is the only thing pulling Angara out of the darkness. Her presence, her strength after enduring torture and isolation keeps them humble to the pain but warns them not to be overcome by it.  </p><p>Her wise eyes look on Aya and she breathes again, coming to greet Paaran Shie. If anyone can take control of the fire that is her people’s anger, it is she. “It is time for a true alliance.” The Moshae announces, “I will let those with the Pathfinder into our city. And I will take him to Aya’s vault.” These words will be taken back to the Nexus. Tann must be rubbing his hands together excitedly. </p><p>Ignorance can be bliss. Ignorance keeps the universe from beating you down when you don’t have the tools to cope. Given the healthy helping dose of Pathfinder they’ve had recently, bad news is almost unescapable. Pathfinder’s torch in the night can only illuminate so far on the path. He also reaches out across official Nexus communications now that there is a bridge between his emblem and the Angara. </p><p>“Together we can face this. An embassy on Aya as well as on the Nexus can double our resources. We didn’t cross space to be <em>made</em> great. We do great things. Stars and skies light our way.” </p><p>His message, embracing the Angaran saying is exactly the kind of hope those who have been bathing in the light need. For others, it stings in all the vulnerable places. ‘Easy for him to say when he’s not worried about his next meal.’ ‘He hasn’t had to shoot his own brothers and sisters!’ ‘If it’s so simple,’ they sneer, ‘Hurry up and right all these wrongs if you can, Pathfinder!’ Dark whispers echo up from the yawning pit of despair. </p><p>Maybe it’s lucky he doesn’t do press meetings for the time being. And if one is listening closely, is that the faintest hint of exhaustion, Pathfinder? No one can blame you, it just doesn’t seem to be getting easier, does it? Ryder steps in and things both simplify and complicate at the same time, not that it’s his fault.  </p><p>Through the ever murmuring grapevine, Vehn Terez is seized for treason and betrayal, his screaming and shouting echoing into the thin air in Kadara market as he’s dragged through the open. Outcast guards beat him into submission, the blood of a traitor exciting the primal desire in many to punish and they cheer it on, demanding his beheading for his crimes. Reyes watches from the shadows, seeing his opportunity like a dish on a silver platter. Kadara news is to be paid for and Sloane Kelly doesn’t have the patience for information brokering. He’ll contact Evfra. Keema has done great work to keep their trail secret. She watches hungrily as Vehn is bruised. He’s the cause of many Angaran people going missing including the ship she had wanted so badly to make contact with. The disloyalty to the Moshae is the final nail in his figurative and possibly literal coffin. </p><p>Finally, because to Reyes there’s really nothing he can do with the exposure of evil incarnate except offer his shoulder for Keema’s grief, he sees Ryder’s file on Kadara is updated. Vehn Terev, just the name he’s been looking for. The Pathfinder will be coming for this Anagara amongst other trouble on Kadara Port. Reyes is lucky things have been going his way. His web of masks and pyramids of representatives and his special care to watch Vehn Terev has led him to exactly what he wanted: invaluable information that will bring Ryder straight to him. There’s excitement in the air, a craving for change and, as usual, blood and money. </p><p>In come the comms: The Tempest will be landing at Kadara Port and making contact. Christmas day couldn’t be sweeter. Like a shooting star, that sleek ship comes into sight, gliding as prettily as a bird on the smoothest wind. What a beacon of pride and hope! (What a beacon of credits and power.) Reyes can see it from below, waiting for his chance on one of the outdoor balconies facing into the open air. Evfra confirmed Ryder’s immediate arrival. ‘This is high priority. Time is of the essence.’ </p><p>Vetra Nyx blends in well with Kadara Port’s people. She minds her business, knows the lingo and has a charming way of being exactly where she wants to be when good conversation happens. Several members of the Tempest don’t even disembark but Drack finds his way to the bars immediately. He seems right at home, making an impact simply by being himself. Soon he has a group of Krogan drinking noisily, his celebrity impossible to ignore. Reyes would like to make contact with both of these Tempest mercenaries but he’s got a date with destiny.</p><p>Ryder follows protocol by the Outcasts, dearming both his suit and his gun. If he’s not as straight laced and rule abiding as he looks it’s only the most obvious one. Walking around as clear as day that he’s the Pathfinder is as dangerous as telling a thief which pocket your wallet is in. But that can hardly be avoided when his face has been plastered across every channel connected to the Nexus almost as much as Director Tann’s, albeit Ryder has a more memorable smile. Before he finds his way into Kralla’s Song to find Shena, a Collective recruiter steps conveniently into his path. Curiosity may have killed the cat but to the information broker it’s what puts credits in his account. </p><p>“Pathfinder.” The Salarian greets, friendly, “Welcome to Kadara Port.”</p><p>Ryder settles next to him, out of the way of the door and thanks him. If patience really is a virtue, then Ryder seems to be quite a virtuous boy. The recruiter leans on the railing above the drop off that leads further into the bar. “And informally, of course, the Collective welcomes you.”</p><p>“Informally?” Ryder echoes, mirroring the Salarian so they can people watch and hold their conversation. </p><p>“Well, our leader the Charlatan is a private person. Our information is passed through representatives so to protect their identity. You’re quite high profile so I know we’ll want to work alongside you. And if the Initiative proves reasonable, I’m sure we’ll be willing to work with the Nexus as well.” A shiny eyed messenger boy makes for a good first contact. </p><p>Unbeknownst to everyone but the Charlatan himself, Ryder <em>is</em> going to get that personal face-to-face, free of charge. Listening in on recruiter’s conversations is merely one activity in the multitask bundle of a proper information broker. These common channels make sure the same story is being told so that the foundation is laid properly. Can’t have a building without some concrete (and if there are bodies to hide that foundation better be strong.) Contact with the Pathfinder has been made. The notifications blink across the Collective like a wave. </p><p>“I see. I’ll keep that in mind.” Ryder says evenly, thanking the recruiter and taking his leave. He plays a good deck of cards, neutral and open to new information. If he wasn’t already recruited somewhere vital, Reyes would say he can make a valuable asset to their cause simply because he doesn’t wear his greed on his sleeve. Ryder scans the room but ultimately Shena doesn’t appear to be waiting for him. He approaches Umi Henon and they exchange words, the line of his back straight and disciplined. Loosen up, Ryder, people will start staring. </p><p>But it isn’t long before he seems to settle in, resting back against the empty counter and looking out into the glowing orange of one of Kadara’s famous tequila sunrise afternoons. The irony of the name makes it all the more charming. Of course Reyes is going to keep him waiting, a classic power play, one that also works well for his unpredictable schedule. He’s here, taking into account what he’s about to walk into. And honestly, looking at Ryder, the guy looks like he can use a breather.</p><p>What do Pathfinders think about when they have a moment to themselves? </p><p>“You look like you’re waiting for someone.” </p><p>Even as Umi demands payment with aggressive drunk pirates and their shouting erupts, he immediately has Ryder’s attention. Reyes gives Umi’s scowl one glance and she slides him two shimmering metal cups with a splash of whiskey, neat. Her disgust is perpetual, not personal, so she can throw a knife <em>and</em> pour a drink without batting an eye. Approaching to talk, Reyes is finally getting to look at the notorious guard dog of the Initiative, the kid playing leader and getting disgustingly lucky, the shotgun wielding human with a knack for danger and controversy. Or maybe he’s looking at an ambassador of culture and safety, a young man with a strong sense of duty, a hero who is trying to do right where there’s a hell of a lot of wrong. The man behind all his shiny words, if Reyes Vidal gets a chance, he’s going to polish him and see if it’s just varnish. </p><p>Reyes offers the drink, receiving first an appraisal, simple and careful. Ryder seems contemplative, which is reasonable, because this is not who he was promised to meet for intel. His expression remains neutral, long eyelashes flicking up and down when he returns his attention to Reyes. Either he has a good poker face or he’s a slow thinker. </p><p>But he takes the drink, saying coolly, “I’ve got time for a drink.” </p><p>Appreciates a neat whiskey, just Reyes’ type. </p><p>They settle against the bar, clinking glasses. Reyes isn’t worried about Umi overhearing their conversation because by now the information he’s sharing has whispered its way under her door. She is always listening to make sure the gunfire, petty or serious, stays outside the bar and her paycheck keeps rolling in on time. Ryder takes a healthy mouthful, and my how tasty he makes the amber look. Thirsty, Pathfinder? His eyelashes flutter closed a moment as he swallows. </p><p>“Shena.” Reyes introduces himself, “But you can call me Reyes. I hate code names.” The first of his white lies. He offers his hand to shake, and Ryder takes it firmly, “Ryder.” He’s not wearing gloves and Reyes can see his scarred knuckles. Giving Reyes a once over where his eyes linger nowhere, he says, “I was expecting someone more… Angaran.” </p><p>This draws a laugh from him, “The Resistance pays me to supply information. Among… other things.” </p><p>Stepping to the right of a question is way of dodging it without completely disregarding it. Those hazel eyes from all the video feeds remind him of his whiskey, straight forward and warm and so much sharper in person. He can see Ryder thinking. But he’s here to offer something else. “Vehn Terev was arrested by Sloane Kelly, the Outcast leader. Word spread of his betrayal to the Moshae and people are calling for his execution.” He draws his thumb across his empty glass rim, “And Sloane…” He slides it back towards Umi’s side of the bar, moving away from other smugglers approaching to buy a drink, “She’s a woman of the people.” He wants to lead Ryder forward both literally and figuratively through his maze. How much does he blindly trust, how much does he lean towards people and what they have to offer. He wants to test that faith he’s been seeing pull the Pathfinder through the worst of people. Ryder throws back the final splash and he follows but doesn’t react to blind prodding. </p><p>“Dress it up however you want- she’s a criminal.”</p><p>His sense of ethical clarity is crystal clear. It’s no skin off his back though, Reyes prefers the Collective make the first good impression. There’s no obvious hostility in the Pathfinder’s voice, his personal opinion tightly guarded. Ryder settles against the railing with him, rubs his thumb idly over his scars on his first knuckle. From this angle he can see clean cut scars across his cheek and temple, vivid like they were made by something powerfully sharp but they’re not fresh and the glow of sun on his nose and cheekbones. Dawning from the burning Kadara sunlight, red washes over their faces and Ryder’s eyes glow at the right angle. </p><p>“You work for the Initiative.” Reyes murmurs, knowing that even drunk Outcast pirates can hear. Their faces are close, “Sloane was part of the uprising on the Nexus. I doubt she’ll give up Vehn easily.” </p><p>Ryder listens, lips crooking slightly, and says with an unalarmed sincerity, “I’m taking him- with or without her permission.” It sounds like a promise and Reyes can feel his own mouth take to a grin. He likes the odds he’s seeing on his table. “We’re gunna be friends, you and I.” The wind picks up from down below, the echo of machinery and harsh voices floating up and Ryder’s gaze is drawn out across Kadara Port into the badlands. All good indications so far. He thinks he has his foot in the right doorway. </p><p>“There might be another way to get to Vehn.” Reyes offers, as if he’s just thought of it. Depending on who the Pathfinder was, he already had something started with regaining the war criminal. The credits pay well and Keema appreciates any good will between the Collective and the Resistance. But now he has his wild card. Ryder’s attention finds him again. “You work Sloane and I’ll talk to the Resistance.” Their arms are touching. Ryder doesn’t pull away. So Reyes does it for both of them. </p><p>“How do I contact you if things go south?” The Pathfinder calls after him, taking the first few steps after him through the noise of the crowding bar. Reyes turns around, craftily dodging a Krogan pirate stepping to his table.</p><p>Umi snaps, “Hey!” Whipping Ryder’s attention around before he catches one last glimpse of Reyes’ wink slipping away into the crowd. “You gotta pay.” She growls, tapping the bar counter with one strong finger. Ryder approaches with another moment of hesitation, opening up his omni-tool. </p><p>Nothing wrong with exchanging classified information for a drink. Reyes knows he’ll have a chuckle either way- Ryder’s righteousness turning to anger at his sneakiness or his humor at suddenly buying a hard-working agent a drink. His own credits are tied up presently, awaiting a certain shipment anyway so he doesn’t think Ryder’s paycheck will mind too much. </p><p>‘Shena’ goes to contact the Resistance and Ryder leaves Kralla’s Song to make pleasantries with a rebel queen. Before joining the Initiative as head of security, Sloane Kelly was in the Alliance with a nearly spotless record. Ryder might relate except for her brutal anger that flared up and led her getting into multiple altercations with other officers leaving a few bloody stains on her hands. Not unusual but certainly her past behaviors should be an indication for future ones. She may seem like a chaotic warlord but she is still a former soldier turned pirate and pirates have their own codes for honor. (And punishment.) Reyes wonders idly, still warm, what he thinks now that he’s met both factions. Even if Sloane Kelly reigns over the Angaran port with a fist and brass knuckles, she’s still upper crust. She knows what it’s like to have a duty that was more to than just herself at one point. </p><p>Evfra answers immediately to his message: &gt;Contact with Pathfinder successful. Requesting carrier ship for extraction.&lt;</p><p>&gt;Ship will be ready. Make direct contact with this omni-tool.&lt; He sends the digital code. &gt;Criminal must be alive for the transaction to be considered complete. Stars and skies light your way.&lt;</p><p>It’s almost dark out before Ryder returns from the Outcast Headquarters. He’s escorted by Kelly’s two main Krogan bodyguards but appears unharmed. Concentrated, he seems to be talking to someone. Maybe SAM. Now that Reyes has made contact with the Pathfinder and his mega AI computer, he will have to be careful about sneaking around in his files. He has little doubt SAM has taken a scan of him and they know him by face, by a name and by a nav position. It’s asking nothing but for trouble to play chess with something exponentially learning at all times. </p><p>The market is still extraordinarily busy, voices carrying over into the night sky. Business never sleeps and neither does desire. There’s a splash of blood rusting on the metal flooring from a beating earlier for refusing to pay Outcast protection fees and their interest rates. The dissatisfaction is bubbling, a pot ready to start boiling and spilling everywhere. Ryder sees it and gives it a long look. </p><p>“Pathfinder!” Reyes calls, a perfectly timed and conveniently placed distraction, “Over here.” Folding his arms loosely, he takes in Ryder’s expression, “Have a nice chat?” Flirting has always been easy, but he’s enjoying the stakes of this situation immensely. No wonder rebels return to the Nexus after meeting Pathfinder Ryder; he seems to bring good omens, a sense that the future will be well-fed and with a sense of purpose. Even if his meeting with Kelly went sour, one bad apple can’t be the cause for throwing out the rest.  </p><p>“Don’t worry, I found a workaround.” </p><p>“Let me guess, with strings attached.” Not as naïve as you may act, Ryder. </p><p>Amused, Reyes says, “Not any new ones.” He changes the subject, “Evfra wants Vehn alive. Here,” He extends his hand, offering a thick black puck, “Use this to eat through what’s holding him prisoner. It can’t be traced back to us. A Resistance agent will be waiting to pick Vehn up.” Behind him the vendor is making a great bargain over a cheaply enhanced rifle. Outcast guards are standing across the plaza, having a smoke and a conversation. Their eyes are unfocused, distracted by the personal. </p><p>“This sounds risky. How can I be sure Vehn won’t just break for it?” Ryder turns the heavy disk over in his hands, examining it. His white shirt is bright under the street lamps glowing above head; he’s ironically standing in the light while Reyes leans back in the shadows. He’s realizing the luck he has that the Pathfinder himself came for their meeting. He won’t have another chance, another timely meeting while the young man is still innocent of the cruelties of heroism when the world wants to punish someone for the wrongs of the many. </p><p>“We have job security. Evfra has that covered. There’s a maintenance shaft that will lead you directly there. I’ll send you the code to your omni-tool that’ll get you inside. You should be able to handle the rest.” Ryder approaches for the code, lifting his arm and opening his omni-tool. He allows Reyes access and now he’s exposed, taking the risk of this whole opportunity crumbling beneath him. Once Ryder and SAM, especially SAM, know the reading of his omni-tool, he won’t have the element of surprise or Kadara Port hacker chaos to hide behind. It’s all about his social game now. </p><p> Ryder’s eyelashes glow soft orange as he looks over the information now his naturally calm demeanor making him unreadable. They’re standing close together, the freckles on the Pathfinder’s face visible at this distance. Reyes knows that an honorable man like him will return a favor if asked…</p><p>Ryder lifts his gaze, and for a moment Reyes thinks he will just take his leave but he slowly smiles, “There’s the matter of the bill you left me with…”</p><p>But comradery is free and certainly preferable. “I’m usually the model gentleman.” He says, slow and deliberate, hoping to be seen right through. </p><p>“I don’t believe you.” Ryder says, his clear stare, still so straight forward and fearless meets him head-on. But his eyes are laughing.</p><p>“Because I’m lying.” Reyes says quietly, between them, pulling Ryder’s attention even closer. “Come to Tartarus after all this, the first round’s on me.” Gently, invitingly, he says, “I promise.” </p><p>And he knows in this exact moment, he actually means it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Motivations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Reyes receives a tip and he plans to use it to his advantage.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the support! A Reyes-centric chapter. Things will pick up between Ryder and Reyes next chapter! </p>
<p>This is where I'm altering some of the canon for the purpose of my plot. Several important Kadara characters come to play here. Hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Before the Pathfinder has another moment’s rest at Kadara Port, news that the Tempest is lifting off hits the comms. This sudden departure erupts a wave of questions. ‘Did Sloane scare him off?’ ‘Maybe he just doesn’t find Kadara worth the effort.’ ‘I barely got a glance at him.’</p>
<p>Reyes sees the ship’s white streak across red sky. Before our drink, Ryder? Cold. </p>
<p>He knows their mission to retrieve Vehn Terev was successful. Whatever intel Ryder has retrieved is between his team, SAM and Vehn who is now a prisoner waiting for trial with the Resistance en route for Aya. His account shows Evfra’s honor, brimming with credits but his interest remains. Barely more than a cycle of the sun and Ryder has vanished. He calls Keema up. The Charlatan wants to know first. </p>
<p>A reliable round of word by mouth comes through, a scout reporting that the Krogan mercenary got up abruptly to hold an emergency meeting on the Tempest in the middle of drinking with other war veterans. An email is traced back to Drack’s omni-tool; there is civil unrest on another planet, a smoking time bomb headed straight for the Nexus by Krogans with a score to settle. That familiar sense of danger and something the Pathfinder certainly can’t ignore. The leash of responsibility tightens again. </p>
<p>Reyes is sure he will see Ryder back amongst the chaotic and vicious, the talented and secretive, whether it be sooner or later. He had wanted to get more information about SAM in the enticing atmosphere of one drink too many and a pretty smile but for now, he will busy himself with other things. </p>
<p>Lately he’s seen an influx of not yet Outcast and promising soon-to-be Collective Nexus abandoners. People who have even recently been betrayed by the spinning fortune of Tann’s decisions. They are fresh eyes with new intel on how things are developing. And what’s available to take advantage of. Bringing in new Collective members is a special version of Secret Santa- the first present is always from the Charlatan and always comes with a price. From there on out all presents are for him. </p>
<p>“Rations on my doorstep!” Whispers of excitement; nothing is sweeter than red wine and a square of dark chocolate after weeks of dry freeze meat and potatoes. </p>
<p>“Wine and chocolate? A gift from the Charlatan. You’ve been marked for recruitment.” </p>
<p>Romance invites trust and trust lets in loyalty. It is not easy to convince soldiers of the pleasures of working for one’s self while answering the shadows occasionally. They are proud to establish a chain of command, and like for structure. Reyes has tried to pull some of Sloane Kelly’s people out from her pyramid but ultimately they have such a respect for military glory that even their hunger feels righteous when they stand by their leader. While it works for budding new messengers, he needs firepower, intelligence, an upper hand, and he can’t quite pull out the bottom of her throne with cocoa, no matter how sweet. </p>
<p>Dr. Nakamoto Ryota sighs into his cup, coffee, black, and says, “Couldn’t you have convinced him to provide some medical supplies, medi-gel for instance, at least?” His face shows a long winded exhaustion, dark circles and creases where his expression shows incessant worry. He’s leaning up against one of his crates of tools, half empty for bandages, gels and simple pain killers as they sit in his medical tent.</p>
<p>Reyes chuckles, giving an honest shrug from the thin fold-up cot, “I didn’t have much time with him.” He’s added a splash of whiskey to his own coffee, something Dr. Nakamoto refused. The wary side eye has him add, “Truly, Doctor, my hands were tied.” </p>
<p>He sometimes comes to meet Ryota in the slums and shares a drink, rarely alcoholic on Ryota’s side, and listen to the stories of the injured and the bad lands. If he is exposed to be the still luckily anonymous, notorious Charlatan fueling this medic station with credits and donations, Reyes is sure he would be kicked out immediately and only offered service in the case of an emergency. But he keeps his mouth shut, and enjoys the moral dilemma Dr. Nakamoto begrudgingly wades through using his supplies. He’s a good doctor, with a steady hand for stitches, no issue with servicing those in need, and a clear head. Maybe a little too smart for his own good and naïve as proven with Sloane’s betrayal to his research. </p>
<p>“It isn’t that I think the Nexus was right for what happened but they’d be our best connection to what we need,” He sighs and mutters, “If they’d even want anything to do with us… Sloane is determined to keep that bridge burnt even if her own people get hurt. It’s..” He squeezes his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, “just, people are dying from completely preventable causes.” </p>
<p>“If you keep worrying over things you can’t change like that, you’ll be in an early grave, Ryota.” </p>
<p>“Dr. Nakamoto.” He corrects bluntly and sets his cooling cup down next to his computer. “I can’t help but worry. Every person who decides to settle out in the badlands is that much harder to provide medical support to as well.” He begins typing, probably checking up on those who he knows who are making the best of the situation they’ve been thrown into or are out earning credits even at the expense of grievous injury. </p>
<p>Reyes taps a little tune out on the dense glass of his own cup, watching him. “Have new people made the badlands their home?” He asks after a moment. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Dr. Nakamoto squints into the screen, eyes exhausted, “Some cult or something. Against AIs, a little preachy about technology and the dangers of being too dependent. I asked why the hell were they going to the badlands when they came all the way from the Nexus.”</p>
<p>“And?” </p>
<p>“Said they were laying low.” He drops into his rolling chair, “Haven’t made much contact since then. I hope they haven’t gotten themselves killed. Seemed pretty capable with tech, fixed my x-ray scan for me, despite their gospel.”</p>
<p>“So you don’t mind having favors done after all.” Reyes smiles when Dr. Nakamoto gives him a deadpan stare but it lacks suspicion. Charming innocence if the man would let Reyes any closer. Finally, the young doctor waves him away, “You’re not even a patient today, more of a distraction than anything.” </p>
<p>“Distractions from work are a <em>good</em> thing, Dr. Nakamoto. All work and no play makes Ryota a dull boy.” He sets his cup on top of one of the crates as he leaves with the doctor’s voice calling out, “One of these days, Vidal!” </p>
<p>Reyes prefers the scouts do the field work and he do his part in the safety of civilization on the low stake missions. But he isn’t against stepping into the action when the profit is good. A faction of cultists right under his nose with some kind of knowledge, whether how to destroy, obtain, or develop AI and an open schedule makes for a perfect vacation. The best way to make deals is to be one step ahead of the last one. His message to Keema is brief and appropriately informative. He’ll be out a few days, in the badlands, don’t let him die if he sends an SOS signal. Short and sweet. </p>
<p>Normally it’s suicide to travel alone into the wild, not just due to the scavengers and the thrown-aways that will rip you to shreds and take whatever’s in your pockets while you bleed out but also because the vicious animal life has no qualms about chewing the marrow right from your bones and rotting your face with acidic saliva for digestion. But Reyes Vidal has his eye on a prize. He makes contact with Dr. Nakamoto, offering to drive out a small portion of necessary supplies to the cult which the doctor insists is not a favor <em>he’s</em> paying back if Reyes is laying it on the table. He agrees. The protection of life is all the doctor thinks about and he straps a small but hefty container to Reyes’ bike. </p>
<p>“Be safe out there, Vidal. I don’t know why you’re going alone. And I’m not going to ask.” He checks the lid one last time and Reyes says, helmet under his arm, “Don’t miss me too much.”</p>
<p>“Trust me, I’ll enjoy the silence.” </p>
<p>He leaves early in the morning to keep daylight on his side. The Warden has little to say and grunts in appreciation when Reyes leaves him a pack of Krogan beer in their casual and mutually beneficial comradery. He cracks one, opens the door for both the smuggler and his bike and lets him on his way after nodding in the direction the group left. Sky bright and not a cloud promising rain, Reyes slips on his helmet, sets his omni-tool to scan and heads out. There’s a risk he’ll be shot without explanation and a risk he won’t even make it to the destination. But if Reyes is right about one thing, it’s the power of information and he has something to offer. </p>
<p>Sharp wind rushes past him, the constant buzz of his engine making for a low, rhythmic hum. Around him the brush and the jagged, biting rocks and boulders rush by, pools of acidic rain a pretty swirl of color like that of an exotic frog, beautiful and deadly. Knowing there are faint roads, he sticks to them, quick to avoid half-managed buildings and tents that show promise of exiles. Mid-morning comes and goes, and by afternoon, he’s got a weak signal of a barrier up inside the defenses of a partial mountain. Pulling up to the structure, Reyes lets out a whistle. This isn’t some half-assed, pathetic tent for making it through another day! The walls are fortified, windows plated and tinted and if he isn’t wrong, that’s a sync laser established into the roof of the building, red eye gleaming with threat. A message beeps on his omni-tool, and he looks down, stepping down off the bike. </p>
<p>&gt;State your business or face consequences.&lt;</p>
<p>Straight to the point, not always his style but certainly effective. He types back, &gt;A present from Dr. Nakamoto. Plus a little welcoming gift from the Collective.&lt; He waits, unties the container, knowing well he’s being watched. </p>
<p>The door unlocks, a familiar noise. These are Kadara parts after all. The money is the question. There is a ramp Reyes takes, no stairs and the door slides open, air conditioning welcoming him in. Sitting in a chair before several monitors is a woman, dark skinned with a serious brow and a scar just before her left eyebrow. She has her hair pulled back, loose but professional and her suit, a meld of blues, shows no inscription of where she got it from. Slowly, she stands, giving him a once over and, finding him easy on the eyes and an unlikely threat, half smiles, “Welcome to our sanctuary.”</p>
<p>“The pleasure is all mine.” Reyes drawls, taking the greeting as a chance to explore it with his eyes. It’s still rough around the edges, large electrical cords waiting to be infused in the floor panels and the inner workings of the computers exposed for patch work and touch ups. But it has life- plants hang from the ceiling, well-taken care of, and it appears there is a living space upstairs, which can be accessed either by elevator or by stairs. She looks to be alone for now, which she catches in his expression. </p>
<p>“My colleagues are in the lab. Let me introduce myself. You’ve come all this way.” The woman offers him a seat in a small but rather ironically posh sitting area. A couch and two sitting chairs with a crudely handmade coffee table. Posh in that naturalistic way; someone who appreciates nature confined. The container is placed on the wood. </p>
<p>“I am Katherine Nigh, “Knight” in my communications and circles. We are Firefighters.” </p>
<p>Reyes offers his hand, “Reyes Vidal. I am a member of the Collective. I heard of your party from Dr. Nakamoto.” She takes his in hers, her handshake firm, two pumps. A business woman. Not very cult like thus far but can’t judge a book by its cover. </p>
<p>“So you’re a delivery boy?” Knight turns her head, eyes watching him with a hooded amusement. </p>
<p>“I’m many things.” He replies, “One of them is an informant.” Slowly, casually, he folds his hands in his lap, waiting for her to either take the bait or freeze him out. </p>
<p>Knight also settles back, ankle finding her knee. “I’ve heard a little about this ‘Collective.’ A bandwagon of spies and smugglers. You’ve got a few decent hackers in your ranks from what I can tell. Your tech is highly guarded. Primitive, but effective. And you leave people alone when they want to be left alone.” Lowered eyes, just skirting on the edge of a threat. </p>
<p>“A port of pirates can have a few decent fellows.” They both avoid the idea of just shooting the other in the gut and picking through the remains. She calms at his relaxed, non-threatening demeanor; smart to show a little bark in the off chance she’s let in a rabid dog. </p>
<p>She regards him, “You said you’re an informant. Who’s to say you have anything interesting to offer me?” </p>
<p>“I <em>know</em> I have something interesting to offer you. You know of the Pathfinder, yes? And his AI brain chip?”</p>
<p>“More than simply a ‘chip.’ It’s a ticking time bomb.” Her voice harshens, hand coming up over her mouth twisted with an angry grimace, “That despicable Alec Ryder continuing his research on AIs whilst knowing of the risks that Project Overlord exposed? <em>Then</em> to fuse such a monster with his own son? Soulless..” </p>
<p>Reyes doesn’t say anything about the fact that SAM actually saved Pathfinder Ryder’s life. It’s his opportunity to lean in and he keeps his eye contact, “I’ve heard it’s the most powerful AI yet.” </p>
<p>“They think because it’s successfully attached to a host it won’t eventually corrupt, lose any semblance of its false personality and become a virus intent on destroying everything around it?” She sneers, eyes distant with her thoughts, maybe her own memories. “It’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing and if the Nexus believes putting Ryder’s face over it will hide it, they’re wrong.” The last word is said with conviction, someone who has an idea of what should be done. </p>
<p>“I’ve always thought having a machine that can think in one’s head as risky,” Reyes says and it’s not necessarily a lie, just not the whole truth. </p>
<p>“The risk isn’t even just for the Pathfinder, it’s for everyone. He’s risking lives using it, Nexus is risking lives protecting him… Firefighters can’t ignore a fire and I’m seeing smoke.” There it is, his chance. Underneath his jaw, along his throat, Reyes can feel his heartbeat. </p>
<p>“That’s exactly why I’m here. I know more about the Pathfinder’s relationship with AIs and I’m willing to let you know.. if you’ll let me in on your project.” The deal he needs, on the table. Above their head the sound of a door opens, the whoosh and a creak. Reyes doesn’t look away. </p>
<p>But Knight does, glancing up, taking a measuring look back to Reyes before saying, “Excuse me a moment.” She stands, calling up, “Alain! Back to your room! You can’t be out when we have visitors!” She takes the stairs two at a time and Reyes chances a glance, seeing a young boy in a wheelchair turning his face up to his mother’s. </p>
<p>Softly he can hear them. </p>
<p>“But mom… I’m sick of just waiting around and reading books.”</p>
<p>“I know, honey, it’s not easy. But soon we’ll have everything ready and we can leave this place-..” Her voice fades as they travel back through the doorway to presumably her son’s room. An interesting addition to Reyes’ understanding of Knight’s person but nothing of value elsewise. He waits, looking across the room to their security system and the several camera viewpoints positioned at different angles on the building. A message pings on his omni-tool. </p>
<p>“Sorry about that interruption.” Knight sighs, coming back to the table. Her fiery passion has dissipated, cooled in the reality of her present life. “What would a Collective agent gain in disabling AIs?”</p>
<p>“Well, think of it as a long term investment.” </p>
<p>Leaning back in her chair, Knight contemplates his answer. “I see.” She takes in the medical box, finally registering its presence and she breathes, “Yes, an investment for the future..” They meet eyes, “Tell me what you know and I’ll see what I think.”</p>
<p>Reyes shows the shadow of a smile, “Of course. The Pathfinder does have SAM, the smartest, most capable AI known to Andromeda. But it is not the only AI he possesses.” </p>
<p>Knight’s eyes go wide, her hand gripping the arm of chair. “There’s another SAM?” </p>
<p>“No, something much older, something Angaran. He picked it up on the planet Voeld.” </p>
<p>Quickly, Knight leans into him, eyes intense and she demands, “Where is it? Is it still alive?”</p>
<p>Reyes doesn’t move, “It is still alive. And quite hostile.” He’s playing into her emotions, burning and on her sleeve. He knows she will not back down at the knowledge of more than one AI potentially causing a threat, or being a threat by simply being. </p>
<p>“Damn..! Is there no galaxy safe from the reaches of artificial intelligence…” She mutters into her knuckles, biting on the middle finger, distress fraying her concentration. Her attention returns to him, sharp and willfully, “Why has this not been announced? Is Nexus keeping this a secret?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t put it past Director Tann to keep secrets.”</p>
<p>Wildly she rises, arms folding with her pacing. A moment is spent in heavy silence, Knight processing and adapting her concept of the playing field. She will work with him, Reyes can tell. Slowly, she sits back down, tentative and just on the edge of the seat. “This is certainly useful information, if it’s true.” She challenges mildly.</p>
<p>“I told you I would bring you something interesting. I have the proof you need if you doubt the validity of my claim. Now, just for the sake of our partnership, I have a few questions of my own.” </p>
<p>“Yes?” Her gaze is guarded but willing.</p>
<p>“Do you actually..” He rolls the word along with his hand, searching for the right way to say it, “intend to.. destroy the AIs?” </p>
<p>“We are creating a virus to subdue them. I’m against blindly wiping their data clean and erasing them completely but I don’t believe they should be free to grow and adapt without the proper restrictions.” Knight responds, arms closely folded to her body, “They have a lot to offer when appropriately developed.”</p>
<p>“I see.” Reyes says neutrally, “And you have a way to.. release the Pathfinder from SAM without harming him?”</p>
<p>“The first step would be to immobilize SAM and limit its reach within the Pathfinder’s body. I know they are pretty intertwined,” She murmurs thoughtfully, “But I’m sure there is a way to separate them. SAM would need to be put into a phase similar to a power saving mode. This might affect the Pathfinder, but it shouldn’t hurt him. From there it’s all about the right access. You must have access to SAM’s actual interface.” </p>
<p>“Do you know where that is?”</p>
<p>“I’m positive it’s on the Nexus somewhere. Maybe Director Tann’s quarters.. But knowing Alec, I doubt he put that much trust in anyone but himself. It’s just as likely it’s stayed where only the Pathfinder can access it.” </p>
<p>“Have you any way to gain that access?” </p>
<p>She sighs, loosens up, “Not at the moment. I needed all the manpower I could get my hands on and every one of us is working together to develop both the virus and the virtual box for any AI we can manage to get our hands on. None of my colleagues were eager to stick around the Nexus waiting uselessly.”</p>
<p>Reyes leans forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees, “I think we may just be the answer to the other’s need. I have a strong belief I can find a way to access that interface. We Collective agents are quite good at finding a way into places not everyone can get into.” He says, smiling. </p>
<p>Eyes shining with the hope of success, she breathes, “You’re serious?” No matter how hopeful and optimistic she is, she will need security from him. They have leaned into each other, her excitement, probably after many late nights of fear and endlessly plotting, is impossible to hide. “You mean to say you will deliver the virus and the box to the interface?”</p>
<p>“The Collective would love to offer you its services, Katherine.” Reyes lifts one hand, gloved, to shake on their future partnership and his future fortune. </p>
<p>Glancing to it, she says, “And I can trust you’ll bring it back to us?” </p>
<p>“Do I look the kind of man to lie to you?”</p>
<p>She takes his hand, beaming, her own future secured, “You have my word then. And call me Knight. We’ll be working together.” </p>
<p>Reyes enjoys the casual conversation that follows their agreement and hearing of Knight’s accomplishments. She is a proud single mother of a young and talented boy, Alain and brews a lovely cup of coffee. He doubly enjoys the game of charming the other, and finds her warm hands both a comfort and an added bonus. </p>
<p>Upon returning to the slums, he goes to tell the doctor of his successful delivery but finds Ryota out for house calls. Instead he sends a message, and remembers of the several pings he himself had gotten earlier. Keema has checked in. She’s forwarded a message as well, writing, &gt;Thought you might want to see this.&lt;</p>
<p>Unless Reyes wants his messages decoded and read unnecessarily, he steps out of the open and heads to a room he keeps close to the Tartarus, along a back wall that has a special panel for entry. It’s a small place, just for safety reasons with a single person shower, a change of suits and a bed that can fold up into the wall when need be. <em>And</em> a bottle of half-finished whiskey. One he will be celebrating with. </p>
<p>A hot shower and a shot of whiskey later, he’s dropped down onto the bed to read those messages. Keema has received communication from Elaaden, the sweltering hellish gladiator ring for criminals too vicious for even the badlands and scavengers without alliances and little need for connections unless it’s to shed blood. There is the fledgling Krogan colony New Tuchanka there. But their contact is the water merchant, Annea, an Angara with a talent for profit and brutality. Her relationship with Keema is well-off; she is Annea’s main contact for continuing business with Kadara and is Keema’s eyes in places she can’t see. Plus, Reyes is sure they enjoy a more private relationship behind closed doors. </p>
<p>The message reads, &gt;Keema, everyone’s treating you good, I hope. The Pathfinder arrived for a surprise visit to The Paradise. You didn’t tell me he’s barely cycled twenty moons. Terribly young, even younger than your cousin in the Resistance! He’s travelling to the Krogan colony tomorrow. It’s surprising to think he’s the one who saved the Moshae with those eyes. You can see right through him. Maybe he has nothing of value to hide. Tell me the prices of footage and also engine oil. Stars and skies, Annea.&lt;</p>
<p>He can’t read any intimacy in this message so it will be hard to tease Keema. The pictures attached show Ryder and his two faithful mercenaries, Vetra and Drack. They’re in the sun, coming towards the camera with dust swirling their feet and sun blazing from above. Helmet on, Ryder’s face is hidden with tinted glass and his hand is raised like he’s in mid conversation. Vetra’s eyes have found the camera, but she seems collected, hand calm by her hip and not resting on her holster. </p>
<p>In the next picture, Ryder is inside The Paradise, helmet removed to talk to Annea at her counter. It’s a bit blurry, taken in motion. He looks himself, straight backed and professional. Maybe a little rosy cheeked from the heat there. Reyes sips his whiskey bottle. So that is where his emergency meeting has taken him. Sending Keema his regards for the update, he checks his next unread message. </p>
<p> Well, well. Velonia. Her business is always welcome, especially when his wallet is feeling generous to his ambitions. &gt;Hello Vidal. Pleasure working with you as always. Heard you’ve come into some credits. I’ve got a great deal on some chemical rockets that you might be interested in. If that doesn’t make your heart race, how about some glass paneling, barely a crack and up to date for shielding?&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Velonia, I’m always pleased to see a message from you. How fast the news of wealth travels! If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re spying on me. I’m in the market for some paneling, lucky for you.&lt; He writes back, knowing the Elaaden located Turian’s timely messages are never about coincidence and all about her connections. She’s either in luck for the salvage or she has something to say. </p>
<p>Her message pings. &gt;Lucky for both of us then. I’m making a run later this week. I would have just haggled you then but the craziest thing happened. </p>
<p>The Pathfinder approached me looking for a Krogan from the Jorgal Clan. He asked about you when I told him I had connections to the Collective. The way he said your name (you actually gave it to him? how uncharacteristically honest of you) made me feel like you’ve misbranded yourself.&lt;</p>
<p>Reyes chuckles, even more pleased than before. He takes another taste of whiskey, the burn folding nicely in his stomach and he types back, &gt;I hope you put in a good word for me.&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Send me 500 credits and I’ll show you what my body cam recorded.&lt;</p>
<p>Classic Velonia! Her wit never fails her. Rising up off the bed, Reyes puts down the whiskey. A little voyeuristic but not unwise to have more information on Ryder, if just to justify the means to the end. &gt;Don’t forget the audio and you have a deal.&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Almost thought I had you. Here you go, Mr. Dashing Scoundrel.&lt; The download is pending and while it uploads to his database, he transfers the credits. A small price to pay. The video cuts a bit at the start, fuzzy, low quality when on standby mode. But as someone approaches, visuals sharpen and the image lightens up. Ryder, helmet in hand, and the beginnings of a sunburn on his nose and cheeks. Vetra greets Velonia, their hands shaking from around Ryder. A bit of information is passed back and forth, Velonia playful and dodgy with questions. She tells enough of the truth to seem reliable. </p>
<p>“You’re associated with the Collective?” Ryder echoes, and those whiskey hazel eyes are gleaming in the residual sunlight echoing in from the windows, “So you might know Reyes Vidal?” His name in a good man’s mouth, this name that has always been another shadow, another way to dodge paperwork or responsibility, this person who is taking shape in Ryder’s mind, the way he says it… it makes Reyes almost want to try to be the man Ryder thinks he could be. He feels it up his spine. Even if Ryder can’t tell, he’s somehow defending Reyes with those straightforward eyes and that clear association he’s tied to them. </p>
<p>Reyes replays the feed, takes a swig of whiskey, and licks his lips. He’s finally taken a liking to a codename even if that codename is already damned.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chemistry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ryder responds to Krogan hostility at the colony on Elaaden before he returns to Kadara. Reyes watches his heroic deeds and files away information piece by piece.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the support! I appreciate the comments, I think about them all when I'm writing. This is a really long chapter. I would have broken it up but it didn't feel right for the flow. There is a lot of information in this part, which I enjoyed developing, and I hope you enjoy the details I found important too!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With his newly founded relationship and a budding friends with benefits bonus, Reyes’ network security, evasion techniques and his omni-tool edits have blossomed under a new mentor. Knight is appreciative of his economical provision of tools, especially power grids to help fuel their efforts. She isn’t an exile by upbringing and his charm is not lost on her due to rumor or lack of trust. He finds she is very willing to aid him in his efforts, while she knows little of their purpose, and as long as she has the patient ear to vent to, he is allowed an inquisitive eye to learn of her firewall layers, misdirection of signals and more importantly the Firefighters’ insane ability to hack and gain access to other devices while leaving hardly a trace. </p>
<p>She isn’t looking to establish any sort of permanent presence on Kadara which is convenient for the Charlatan who offers her his support and protection if need be and gives his Collective agent even more so a reason to hang around, although he prefers she believe it is because he enjoys her company. </p>
<p>Keema is impressed, although her eyes smile knowingly, “You better not sell her second rate parts, Vidal. It would be a mistake to underestimate her ability to tear your little kingdom down.” Her mood has improved since the shock from the Kett’s vile truth. She is in recovery, and is willing to have a drink after a period of abstinence to grieve. </p>
<p>“I’m wounded you think that way of me.” He clinks his glass to hers, the liquid a sparkling blue like an ocean in the sunlight, “I wouldn’t gain nearly as much if I was cheap with our new clients.” A deep, profound flavor settles in his mouth as he drinks, the potency of the wine so smooth and airy it’s hard to believe its strength. He doesn’t usually drink Angara wine because it makes the tongue loose but that is probably the purpose considering its people. Around them are other Angara also out of grieving, enjoying Kralla’s Song’s new additions of Angara liquor. Umi may seem cold, but she is not heartless. The stock moving between Aya, Eos and then quietly to Kadara is a helpful component as well. </p>
<p>Cheers to the Pathfinder! This one’s for you. </p>
<p>Outside the clouds are stormy, acidic rain trickling into the badlands and sizzling against the chalky earth. Through the rumbling grey the sun reaches through, beams of light pretty across the faded green and eggshell scenery. The usual passionate oranges and reds have mellowed so gently to gold and yellow behind the rain. These kind of days keep the scavengers inside, and puts a blanket of silence out across the rolling lands. Umi’s business is thriving, the tables full, a bit of gambling over virtual cards in the corner and Outcast security elbowing each other casually outside the doors, drinks in hand. </p>
<p>“So when is our lovely Annea going to come for a visit?” Reyes discreetly taps his wrist as if he is wearing a watch and it’s running out of time. </p>
<p>Keema gives him a well-earned chuckle, “Can’t you ever mind your own business?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I did.” </p>
<p>She concedes, taking a long drink. Her eyes go far off, thoughtful, “She is much too busy. Speaking of such, if you are so interested in my affairs, why don’t you help Sjaan get his debts paid off? You know he wants to return to Kadara and his defense blueprints go unchallenged.” Always cleverly returning to business, Keema is uncatchable. </p>
<p>Reyes gives the change of subject a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement behind his glass. </p>
<p>“He has the cleanest ideas, not a panel out of place.” She continues, “Annea took him under her wing, he’s a brother to one of our oldest friends. But I think he’s done her his favors. What do you say, Vidal?” Keema leans closer, her eyes gleaming so pretty, a beam of light from the open air windows coming through and glowing as if a sun in the universe in that never ending blue. </p>
<p>“All the way from Elaaden, he must owe quite a sum.” He won’t deny the Angara his talent. Not a wall, nor shield, not even a wire has fallen apart by his design. Plus, his research on the chemical characteristics of the weather has been one of the greater benefits to the Port without a price tag. Sjaan merely has an issue with a one-sided affection to gambling. Which, bluntly, Reyes can understand. </p>
<p>“Nothing a few favors won’t settle.” </p>
<p>“Hopefully not directly to our ravenous queen. She’ll find a reason to remember Sjaan poorly.” </p>
<p>“Is that the sound of defeat in your voice, Vidal? How unlike you.” </p>
<p>“I like to downplay my achievements lest they make me reliable.” </p>
<p>They share a laugh, and he takes the contact in, sliding the job right behind making a shipment of Oblivion conveniently disappear for Dr. Nakamoto who has been complaining and looks as guilty as a man about to be hung and testing his ability to hack a device without overloading its sensors on his list of priorities. </p>
<p>Angara wine gives vivid dreams and in his bed, Reyes hears whispers from his past behind a closed door as he tries to pick the lock into the next room. The door bangs loudly, the voices becoming angry, accusatory. He knows they will kill him if they get through before he manages to slip away. The lock catches, but he stays calm. He can trust these hands; they’ve never betrayed him. Another attempt, and the other door creaks, moaning against its assaulters who sound like they’ve got weapons. There’s no way that noise is just a fist. </p>
<p>His knee is aching beneath his weight, a line of sweat running down his back right at the dip of his spine. Reyes breathes, glances back at the folding metal of the door. His last chance, fingers are pushing their way into the room between the cracks. A lightbulb swings aimlessly above head, sending the light flashing in all directions. He doesn’t need light, he needs luck, precision. With one final jerk, the lock jumps and he opens the door, a sweeping rush of air hitting him in the face and he falls out of a plane, bursting through a cloud and into another cloud and another-</p>
<p>Reyes jerks awake, immediately feeling the comfort of the solid form of his mattress. Sighing from the adrenaline still coursing through his blood, he shakes his head with dry amusement. Two full glasses of wine are a bad idea when he goes to sleep still thinking about work. He knows better, Angara wine sinks right into the psyche. Standing, he grabs a towel from the back of a chair and dries himself at the throat so he can sit down at his monitor. </p>
<p>A few messages are waiting for him. An update in general about the shipment of Oblivion from one of the labs out in the badlands. The recon has confirmed the time the truck is supposed to leave and is returning to base and out of the line of fire. Other back and forths from the muscle, but nothing that would need Reyes Vidal’s voice. A request from Knight about cable tubes. </p>
<p>It’s a time as good as any to see if he understands the basics to the Firefighters’ approach on spying. Luckily, he knows exactly who his target is going to be and what device. Even luckier, he knows Ryder’s general location and his omni-tool reading. His own omni-tool is bright, flying across the black silence of space, power flush with processing. No wonder Knight’s group needs more electricity, she runs a strong program. The device pings, filing the coordinates of Ryder’s position in several quick lines of text. Dark eyes focused on the screen, Reyes’ feels his heart pick up pace again. </p>
<p>Team Pathfinder, seemingly in the middle of nowhere on Elaaden. Nowhere near The Paradise and no means to tell the time of day there with the sun always high in the air. Will they be in the middle of a mission? He begins searching for signals around the omni-tool carefully. The Nomad, a little large for his first attempt, other omni-tools he definitely should not mess with, devices that have no camera or audio, ah. There it is. Liam’s video recorder. Slowly, he begins to override the simple gates, unlocking the power then the audio and video. It beeps on. </p>
<p>It’s sitting on a shelf, facing into the cockpit which is dim and a little messy. Reyes’ eyes fly across the details, picking up anything that catches his attention. There’s Remnant tech, partially deconstructed in one seat and a t-shirt as well as a sports towel thrown over the driver’s seat. Several crates of ammo sit in various places, one with a replacement arm for what looks to be a Krogan resting on top. Along a few of the open spaces on the wall are pictures, the family of a young black man, and friends with happy, cheerful faces and a gorgeous car. Reyes gives it a low appreciative whistle. </p>
<p>With the rush of the airlock opening, the door glides up and a dark suited person steps inside from the hot, blinding heat of ever day. There’s a sluggishness to his movements, the door whooshing closed behind him as he unhooks his helmet, the oxygen and safety gases hissing ever so slightly. Ryder’s warm face and sweat drenched hair come into the light, his eyes downcast. The lights in the Nomad have flipped on with his presence and he sighs heavily, running a hand up into his hair. </p>
<p>Then he grabs his towel to wipe his face, turning away from the camera. His suit is dusty, desert sand clinging to the dark crevices. Reaching down around the seat, Ryder pulls up a sports drink, cracking it open. His profile, the line of his nose and the weight of wet eyelashes from sweat are honest. This is the Pathfinder when no one is looking. He drinks, sucking on the plastic opening, so he can use his hands to expertly unlock and detach his chest plate. Unfastening both of his shoulder plates, he removes the armor around his arms, tossing it all into the seat next to the driver’s. The back plate attachments for his jump jet and holster for his guns goes into the floor. Then he peals out of the black jumpsuit, unzipping the back at his neck. The red light of the video recorder gleams knowingly behind him, seeing the lines of his back and the indents in his skin from being in a hot suit for hours. </p>
<p>Throwing his head back, Ryder squeezes the drink empty and tosses it into the wall trash can near his hip. The muscles of his torso are gleaming, still wet. A bruise close to his spine but below his shoulder blades is healing, green and yellow. He rolls his shoulder, fingers coming to massage a darkened, harsh spot of skin, red and slightly purple. By his expression, the action is almost involuntary, merely a means to comfort his body as he thinks of other things. Reyes watches him wipe his lower back, and then slip into the crisp white t-shirt he saw earlier. He’s looking fresh out of a hot shower. At least his upper half is. </p>
<p>Finally he drops down into the driver seat with another heavy sigh, the towel over his eyes. A voice, one Reyes’ has never heard speaks up, the lilt intelligent and the emotion neutral, “How are you feeling, Pathfinder? It is important you do not overwork yourself.”</p>
<p>“I’m okay, SAM. Just got a little too hot out there. I’ll be all good in a minute.” The chair leans back, almost flat, and for a long moment, the only noise in the Nomad besides the soft rumble of the engine and the air conditioning is Ryder’s slow breathing. With Reyes’ earpiece in, it’s close, as if he himself is sitting right there in the back seat… </p>
<p>The door unlocks and drifts open, Drack’s laughter crackling, “What, she say something new about me?” He comes inside, settling heavily in the far seat and slamming both large legs atop an ammo crate. Vetra comes in behind him, gracefully closing the door and slipping into her own seat towards the back where Reyes’ viewpoint is critically lacking. But he can hear her voice closely. </p>
<p>“She was complaining her ‘stubborn old fossil of a grandfather’ was thinking of using his fists again to make his arguments instead of actual words.” Vetra’s voice hints her amusement, the sound of a screen coming to life and her typing clicking beneath their conversation. </p>
<p>“Ha!” Drack snorts, “Has she gone soft or does she just miss me? She’s said worse about me to my face!”</p>
<p>“Maybe it’s the stress.” Vetra says lightly, “With everything that’s going on.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s hard keeping everyone from knocking heads.” He says back, “<em>And</em> she misses me.”</p>
<p>Vetra laughs, “She’ll never admit it. Maybe she takes after a certain stubborn old fossil.”</p>
<p>“This ‘old fossil’ can still wrestle a fiend to the ground with his bare hands.” </p>
<p>“I’ll have to make sure Sid doesn’t get the wrong impression about adulthood from you when you two meet.”</p>
<p>“I’m a great influence for the young ones, Vetra.” They laugh together, talking as old friends do, the banter genuine and long standing. While the Krogan is notoriously straight forward, Vetra sharing her privacy means Drack and she share trust. </p>
<p>Ryder seems sound asleep in the front seat, despite their back and forth, arms folded loosely across his chest. Vetra rises up from her seat, blocking Reyes’ vision for a moment, “Is Ryder out?” She checks her omni-tool, “Well, it would be night back on Eos.” </p>
<p>“We’ve spent more time jumping time who can really tell what time our eternal clock is supposed to be at.” Drack chortles, whipping out a well-used rag to oil to shine his weapons. “I’d say it’s the heat. Humans are basically little water sacks.” His mouth crooks in a grin, “With a few bones.” </p>
<p>Vetra opens a cool case from inside the wall, the air wafting out in a chilled cloud. “Don’t let Ryder hear you, it might hurt his feelings.” Her slender, nimble fingers opening a cold gel bandage, its blue shimmering in the light. </p>
<p>“You and Kesh always worrying about feelings. I worry more about the practical stuff- if he’s gunna get shot and if there’s enough alcohol.” </p>
<p>Vetra lifts Ryder’s towel carefully, his hair residually a mess and she muses, “And?” She smooths the bandage on his forehead, laying the towel over the seat’s arm, “Where do you usually fall on those assessments?” Her consideration for their Pathfinder seems well practiced and not simply because of their dynamics as a close knit team. Both mercenaries have family they’re taking care of, somewhere, somehow. </p>
<p>“Eh, miscalculated one time. A few scratches here and there make a good story. And definitely could always be more alcohol.” He wipes clean some residual blast powder from a shotgun, scratching his chin as he inspects the shine of the black barrel. </p>
<p>Vetra comes back to her seat, settling her long legs in. “It would be interesting to see what you’d say after a few glasses of ryncol.” </p>
<p>“You know where to get ryncol! Should’ve said something earlier!” He barks a laugh, “You might have something there. I haven’t shed a tear in over six hundred years and that one was from laughing too hard.” </p>
<p>Once more the door glides open, the mysterious Asari genius, Peebee, hopping in, “Hope I didn’t miss anything good.” Her slender waist and cheeky smile saunter over to the front seat, “Pretty sure I heard ryncol and I want in if that’s accurate.” Dropping down to the seat arm, she examines Ryder and says, “Isn’t it cute that humans get these little spots from the sun?” Her gloved finger traces across the Pathfinder’s residually warm cheeks. Her eyes flick up and Reyes’ heart skips a beat when she makes direct eye contact with the video camera. She stands. </p>
<p>Reyes is still in the light of his screen, watching. </p>
<p>“Has Liam got half a brain or what!” She laughs, grabbing up the video camera, “He totally forgot to power his camera down.” The video jostles, whirling around the Nomad before going black and making static on Reyes’ end. </p>
<p>He breathes out, taking out his ear piece. He’s done it <em>and</em> gotten away with it. A rush runs through his blood and he grins successfully. The intel he’s gathered is swimming through his mind, settling into his personal files of each Pathfinder team member. He’s surprised by Drack’s friendly disposition and rather how sisterly Vetra can be. He has no reason to invest further into their vulnerabilities; their business is always a plus and he won’t make enemies out of sleeping dogs with guns. </p>
<p>Now, on the other hand, Ryder. Is it the semblance of power he has over one of the most influential humans in their universe that excites him or is it the glimpse into Ryder’s life behind all the Initiative protocol where he’s at his most real? Reyes will dip his figurative cup into both. Knowledge is power. He doesn’t know enough yet, but he has his own set of clues. He knows he’s looking in the right direction, the Angaran AI, SAM, Ryder’s personality. On his fingertips he can almost feel the hot skin of Ryder’s back, a sight still burning behind his eyes. </p>
<p>Or maybe that’s the fire he’s playing with. </p>
<p>Velonia’s sleek, black streaked ship comes down to port several days later. She’s expected every couple of weeks unless the Elaaden scavengers dig out something of high value. Her flexibility makes her resourceful and quick to profit. She calls on Reyes, the panels she told him about weeks prior still sitting on her ship. They meet in the market, her cool composure as smooth as ever. </p>
<p>“You’re later than usual.” He says as they fall into step. </p>
<p>“Had some business to attend to unexpectedly.” Velonia replies, leading him back towards her counter where travelling merchants set up shop for a fee. She slides behind the metal, indicating behind her with a jab of her thumb to the containers stacked on top each other in front of the back door. “Got plenty to offer though.” </p>
<p>“Personal business?” Reyes inquires lightly, taking a seat at the one customer stool. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder business actually.” She says, knowing he’ll find her story irresistible. Velonia leans down, pulls up a glass panel, clear except for the fine hair wires running through it. It’s disabled. She slides it over to him and he flips on the lamp bolted to the counter for examining parts, pulling it down close so he can use his magnifying lens on his omni-tool to inspect its quality. </p>
<p>“Don’t tell me your scavengers had to dig him out of the sand.” His expert eye is quick to find the few damaged wires fraying or burnt out. He puts it towards the cost assessment behind their conversation. “It would really put a damper on his reputation.” </p>
<p>“I did do him a favor but nothing so adventurous.” She has her arms folded on the counter surface, watching him. They both know she can’t haggle him for the price which makes them equal on Kadara. “I also didn’t realize Vetra is doing business from the Tempest fulltime.” She says evenly, probing as much as he is. </p>
<p>“450 for each panel, if they all look like this.” He flicks the lamp off, sliding the panel back towards her. Decidedly he doesn’t comment on Vetra, who is sharper than an Asari sword. She’ll probably hear him across space.  </p>
<p>“Ah, well, alright then, deal.” She draws up the other nine panels, tying them with an iron rope to hold them together as she says, “She’s playing hero right now.” Her final attempt to delve into his ocean of information but she doesn’t have the bait to offer him a reason to bite. </p>
<p>“Our Velonia, jealous? How school girl of her.”</p>
<p>She laughs, shrugging off the comment, “I think I’d lose my edge if I spent too much time with the Pathfinder. I have no need to be a hero to anyone unless they pay me.”</p>
<p>“So the Pathfinder paid you for your favor. Not quite the definition of a favor.” Reyes smiles, transferring his credits. He has her pinned and she can that. She relents, tapping a finger on the scratched metal counter, “He paid me for the gas.” </p>
<p>“The gas?”</p>
<p>“Paid transport for two humans heading to Kadara from The Paradise. You might remember Isabel Halsey?” </p>
<p>Reyes remembers her, a little mouthy, liked drinking Krogan beer watered down until she could barely stand. She was impatient on the field unless she got to jump straight into action but her aim was only just above average. Maybe she liked the adrenaline. Brutal about cutting deals, she did know the value of a piece of merch although Isabel was more likely to pocket the money and fight than to do proper by her clients or the Collective agents working with her. Elaaden seems more her style. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I remember.” </p>
<p>“She’s got a brother, Kent. Came all the way from Nexus to find her. Knew she had joined the rebels, saved up his credits and flew out. Though soon he found out she’d been exiled and went all the way to Elaaden on his last cred.” Velonia let out an amused sigh, “Surprised he didn’t get shot his first day. Anyways, he got lucky. Here comes the Pathfinder, basically throws himself at the guy’s boots, begs him to find little Izzie!” She clasps her hands in mock performance, “Please! You’re my last hope! Don’t you have any family, Mr. Pathfinder?”</p>
<p>Chuckling, Reyes can almost see it in his mind’s eye. </p>
<p>“Of course our hero can’t leave him alone, sniveling in the sand. He promises he’ll find little Izzie. She’d gotten a pretty big name for herself. I knew she was doing business with gang leaders and war hungry exiles out in the dunes, unfaithful to anyone who paid the lesser price. Really getting in deep. So I gave him her nav point.”</p>
<p>“What’d that selfless deed cost him?”</p>
<p>“That one was on the house. I don’t need anyone challenging my business without proper communication. She’d just become unpredictable, you know. Killing off decent scavengers when they encroached on her dig spot for the day.” Velonia sighs, remembering good clients lost to the sands of Elaaden. “I wasn’t expected Kent to actually get his sister back. She’s always been a loose cannon. But several days later, here she comes!”</p>
<p>Reyes is dying to know what Ryder said to convince her. </p>
<p>“The Pathfinder sends me a message. Surprised me, for sure! I hadn’t given him my details but he’s got a super computer in his head so I guess I should’ve expected as much. Asked me to take the two siblings back to Kadara with me. Told him gas ain’t cheap and Isabel’s a liability. But he paid up front and she was actually pretty well behaved. Starting to wish I had an older brother.” </p>
<p>He files her comment away. “So Isabel is back here in the port?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, probably figuring a way to pay the protection fees. Rates have gone up again.” Velonia groans, glancing over Reyes’ shoulder, “Oh, well!” Another Turian saunters up to the counter. Her eyes narrow with her sharp smile, “Business calls. And I’ve got time to make up for. Don’t be a stranger, Vidal.”</p>
<p>He grabs his panels, sliding away from her booth, “Never am.” </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>The Krogan colony of New Tuchanka is marked by flying red banners whipping heavily in the hot desert wind, dyed red with the plant life of the dunes. Countless exile camps are scattered in the waves of Elaaden’s waterless ocean, and if they aren’t exiles in packs they’re scavengers pulling out the battered remains of ships shot down by stolen rocket missiles, thirsting for creds and leftover water. Ryder’s pictures in the Elaaden file are contrasting sand pits- endless millions of grains falling into sinkholes, to massive, arching Remnant structures piercing the skies with black fury. </p>
<p>There’s a video phone in the cock pit of the front seat over the left shoulder that no one uses and this is Reyes’ means of taking footage and audio from the ever busy poster child of the Nexus. He’s been looking for anything to lead him to where SAMs main interface is but there’s been hardly a word on AIs with the Pathfinder team focused on the Krogan dissatisfaction. </p>
<p>Ryder is sitting in the front seat, a line of sweat coming down his temple as he reloads his shotgun cartridges, carefully scooping blast powder with a small spoon. His brow is drawn, a flush sitting high on his cheeks. “This heat is unbearable.” He complains, more to himself than anyone. </p>
<p>Drack is talking amongst the guards at the entrance to the Krogan colony in the distance while the Nomad and the rest of its team wait in the shade of a defeated exile heat resistant shade tarp still standing after their ambush. Vetra has her eye in her scope, making sure of Drack’s safety in the passenger seat next to Ryder. </p>
<p>Peebee is tinkering in the backseat with a remnant core, her jacket thrown into Drack’s seat carelessly. Her bottom lip is in a slight pout, possibly from concentration but also likely from actually pouting. “If I had known I was going to have to come all the way out to the middle of nowhere.. well, I wouldn’t have stayed on the ship but, still, I don’t have nearly enough tools here.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got a kit of various tools underneath my seat.” Vetra offers, unmoving from her position. </p>
<p>“Borrowing!” Peebee’s voice sing songs from the back. </p>
<p>Drack’s voice comes over the comms, “Well, it’s not going to get any less hostile. Morda’s still pretty mad about the Nexus. Head on over and we’ll see if we can’t find a light in this shitstorm.” </p>
<p>Ryder slips his full cartridges into his gun with precision, handling the rest into his hip pocket, “Copy that.” </p>
<p>His comms buzz again, and he pauses, caught off guard. </p>
<p>“What is it?” Vetra asks, already out of her seat, gun holstered. </p>
<p>“It’s Director Tann.” </p>
<p>Peebee groans, “What could he possibly want?” </p>
<p>“Pathfinder.” Director Tann’s voice says evenly. </p>
<p>“Director Tann.” Ryder acknowledges, clicking his shoulder pieces into place. Vetra steps out into the shade, her sharp eyes following the distant form of the worm arching up from the sand, rippling in the heat waves. Reyes, who hasn’t been paying his full attention, busy taking stock of the Charlatan’s alcohol stock for the month, takes note of this exchange. He continues marking off delivered shipments but he’s shifted priorities. </p>
<p>“I hear you’ve finally found the Krogan exiles.” </p>
<p>Ryder fastens his chest plate in, the air pressure letting out a gentle hiss. “Yeah, we’re at the colony now. I’m about to make contact.” </p>
<p>“The… colony.” Tann repeats coolly, voice edging carefully around giving way to his thoughts, “Yes, well. Considering the level of risk this situation holds and how much of a threat the Krogan were during their mutiny, I believe it’s appropriate you turn on your body cam moving forward.”</p>
<p>“Sir?” The Pathfinder inquires respectfully. His hands have stalled putting his helmet on. </p>
<p>“For precaution.” Tann clarifies, enunciating. </p>
<p>Ryder hesitates, looking out the open door to Vetra who is no longer visible from Reyes’ angle. His silence indicates Tann’s explanation is lacking, even unclear and he continues, “For the integrity of your title. You… weren’t awake for the mutiny and this could… sway your decision making. I’d like to be watching in the best interest for the Nexus.” </p>
<p>Reyes completely turns towards his screen in his seat, lowering the datapad. The confusion, the bloodshed and chaos after the Scourge left authority vulnerable to corruption and undermining manipulation. Director Tann was not first in line after Jien Garson’s mysterious death, if not her murder, and considering his position now, there was, and still is, plenty of suspicion about his motives and authenticity. His simmering, albeit restrained distrust towards the Krogan only fuel the rumors that he had a hand in making sure the Krogan went unrecognized and isolated after the Scourge attack. </p>
<p>“I’m not sure that’s the best-“ Ryder begins and Tann cuts him off curtly, “This isn’t a discussion, Pathfinder. This is a directive.”  </p>
<p>The cold boundary of power stills Ryder whose face is turned away from Reyes’ ever watchful eye. </p>
<p>“The Nexus is still vulnerable, as I’m sure you’re well aware. You aren’t doing anything I wouldn’t approve of anyway, so don’t think much different of this either.” There’s an underlying threat waiting beneath the polite, ever politically poignant words. “Think of it as a, oh, a safety net. Do we understand each other?” Tann presses, ironing out all space to argue. </p>
<p>“..Sir.” Ryder says, sliding his helmet on. Whatever he’s thinking, even feeling, he’s keeping tightly contained. The word has a stiffness about it, which can’t be helped. He’s been put in a corner. </p>
<p>“I’ll be waiting for your camera to come on the grid.” Tann logs off and Ryder steps out of the Nomad, shutting her down and severing Reyes’ connection with the video phone. He kicks his feet off the desk and rolls up for better concentration. So Director Tann is now actively monitoring Ryder’s movements directly in the moment. This is no coincidence now that the Initiative is about to make its second contact with those who were exiled from her walls and sent to die in space, or scrape it together against the odds and flip the mother ship the bird.</p>
<p>Reyes is sure he can hack into the live camera feed and sit in for the show beside Director Tann without the Salarian even having the slightest clue. Knight has been teaching him ways to override the tracking signal to his connection, rerouting it back into itself as a camouflage. Her warm hands are capable of a long list of things. </p>
<p>He’s a little late, the video already on and the voices around Ryder’s camera in mid conversation. The position of the lens is right about at Ryder’s shoulder, a place where even if he removes his helmet, it stays unbothered. Drack was waiting for them ahead of the guarded entrance to New Tuchanka. </p>
<p>“-can’t underestimate their hatred for you even if you weren’t directly involved.” Drack is saying. He bumps the insignia on Ryder’s chest plate, “You’re the face of the Nexus. I can’t blame the anger and it might get a little rough but I got your back, kid.” </p>
<p>“Lead the way.” Ryder says back, voice unwavering. </p>
<p>Approaching the sealed door, the guards hold their ground. They’re still suspicious, even hostile and their guns are there to prove it. Looming over them is Morda’s red banner, howling like a lone wolf against the winds.</p>
<p>“Don’t make me say it again to you two. Pathfinder’s with me.” Drack barks, gravelly voice serious but not at the point of frustration. His large, heavy steps make the camera fuzz at the edges. </p>
<p>The right scoffs, jabbing his gun at the Pathfinder, “I didn’t think you really meant it. Have you gone senile? Or lost your edge?”</p>
<p>“The Nexus won’t have your back, Drack.” The other says, his youth showing in his green coloring at his throat and across his forehead. “You don’t have to defend this human just because of some fancy name.” </p>
<p>“Sometimes there are bigger things going on than titles, kid. Let us in, Morda and I got some talking to do.” He says, letting the young soldier size him up, feel his years and his confidence. There is something they don’t yet have settled in Drack’s expression. The left guard grits his teeth, making a snarl but it goes without even a blink from the mercenary. </p>
<p>They relent because he is their elder and their respect for their ancient warriors outweighs their position and ability to take him down. Vetra slips in beside the Pathfinder, quiet and cautious. The danger that lurks in the unhappiness is in the air, an invisible cloud, is oppressive with its weight. The walls of New Tuchanka, dense and powerful are built to withstand heat, sandstorms, gunfire and to break and mold rock. They are brutal in the mountain and earth of Elaaden, like a fist. The door grinds closed behind them.</p>
<p>Krogan linger about in the slim market and sunlight, exposing themselves to the heat without fear. Eyes find the trio immediately, hostility flaring up. They aren’t afraid to speak their minds. </p>
<p>“The Pathfinder must feel pretty tough to just stroll in here.”</p>
<p>“Does he think he’s actually welcome here?” </p>
<p>“I’ll give him a welcome he won’t forget..” </p>
<p>The sand has been ground down to the dusty earth, beaten to a smooth path for walking. Ryder’s steps continue, unfaltering, as he walks beside Drack, who receives equal amount attention, both critical and awestruck. He is immune to their fanatics and criticism, expecting it. Vetra follows as silent as a shadow, knowing this sort of unsatisfied tension is what causes bloodshed. She is watching for Ryder as much as herself. </p>
<p>Murmuring to his Pathfinder, Drack’s voice becomes a rumble, “Ravanor Brenk has intel about the strained situation. We need to talk to him more than you need to talk to Morda. But..” He goes quiet a brief moment, large eyes looking intelligently, knowingly at the door down into the depths of the colony. “Well, won’t know till we do.” He says, resigned. </p>
<p>Passing through the next level of security, the temperature of the inside of the mountain cliff side drops drastically. Ryder’s relieved breath does not go unnoticed. Around them the stalagmites are wide and pocketed wildly like lava rock. Flares and lights bright for construction, building and unfinished jobs lead the path down into the depths which are tunnels of differing heights and widths. The amount of work that has been done in the hellish landscape is unbelievable, a statement to the resilience of Krogan blood.</p>
<p>Its colony is surprised to see them. Their arrival has not been told to many, if any but their informant. Those working on the integrity of the walls or are merely speaking between themselves are scattered through the tunnels about the stairs and near the entrance to the family quarters and camps for privacy. As they walk down the stone stairs, moving about the winding passages, a hand jerks out and grabs Ryder’s upper arm, forcing him against the cold, dark wall. Anger is immediate. The camera jostles, or maybe Ryder does against the harsh jagged rocks. </p>
<p>“The fuck is a human doing in here!” The Krogan soldier snarls, voice harsh with his massive canine teeth and his disgust. “We bleed the humans,” He sneers, crushing Ryder to the wall with his large body, “For their water content…” </p>
<p>Drack smashes their heads together, head butting him with such strength that the Krogan tumbles down the rest of the stairs and slides across the dirty floor of the next intermediate landing area. He groans with the confusion and pain from the density of Drack’s forehead. The challenge is met and the victor decided in record time. Drack booms, “Don’t go too far out of your level, boy! You ain’t even weaned for a rite of passage!” </p>
<p>Other Krogan know his voice, turn their sneering faces away. They recognize strength, bloodlines and pain when the jaw of authority lacks its bite. Here, with the hierarchy being fought over like a wolf pack waiting for an alpha, there lacks the same amount of technicality to each and every dispute. A hit is as much a statement as an actual statement. Pride needs wounding lest blood be spilt for its satisfaction.</p>
<p>“Kesh was right; it’s going to be all fists here.” </p>
<p>“Don’t worry, kid,” Drack turns to Vetra, “I’ve got words up my sleeve too. Ain’t worth wasting them on the young ones though. They gotta have their battles and their losses. I remember when Kesh told her feelings with a solid right hook and a good ol’ head butt.” </p>
<p>“Thanks, Drack.” Ryder says, dusting himself off and Reyes has a chuckle at the fearless attitude that Ryder never shakes. Director Tann must be trembling in his spacesuit. A clap on his back has them continuing down towards the throne room, the center of the colony, and the arena. Sunlight beams tirelessly above the sinkhole, the cliff side before the drop off safely shaded by the angle of the ceiling arching overhead. Glittering in the sun are several shuttles preparing for take-off, Krogan material and Elaaden gathered salvage boxed and being sent out. The landing zones are circular platforms positioned clearly above the sinkhole in the light for visibility, and they dance in the heat waves. </p>
<p>“Ha!” A Krogan roars, throwing out a hand which Ryder steps out of the way of just in time, “Lucky catch of the day! Are we throwing it in the arena for the Challyrion to snack on? They’re getting awful hungry..” His narrowed eyes gleam with a sinister sense of humor and elevation. Between his yellow and gray skin gleams pink flesh of an old scar and when he tries to knock Ryder with another casual slap, his hand is knocked away. </p>
<p>“Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.” Ryder says levelly. “I’m worth a fortune alive.” </p>
<p>They stare at each other, tension sharp. But suddenly an arm coils about Ryder’s shoulders and he’s tugged against hard armor, speckled with sand residue. “Not bad, Nexus!” The Krogan laughs, “Worth a fortune!” He repeats, doubly amused, “Better not with my pay stub!” </p>
<p>“Get outta here, Gran!” Another Krogan pushes him away by the back with a strong arm, “Don’t you have work to do?” </p>
<p>Gran gives a crooked smile, “Guilty as charged. Can’t blame a Krogan for getting restless after all week with no arena time.” He slips away, and the party turns to the older soldier who is looking at Drack with a fond expression of surprise. </p>
<p>“Drack! Ya old wreck!” He says with obvious pleasure, hand coming out to take the mercenary by his own arm. They hold each other’s forearm and knock foreheads with a satisfying clack, “Playing hero, huh!” They pull away, “Swing by when you’ve got time and let’s catch up.” </p>
<p>“Sure thing, Grot. I’ve got stories to tell ya.” </p>
<p>“Yours are what make nights of drinking worthwhile. I’d make the exception for a new one from you.” Grot claps his arm, their friendship bringing him a long earned wave of nostalgia. </p>
<p>“You can’t say you’ve given up even beer!” Drack protests, and his old friend waves him away, “The plumbing I’ve got, I’ll tell ya. It just doesn’t filter like it used to. Can’t be leaking in the middle of a job. It’s too damn much.” </p>
<p>Drack jabs a thumb to Vetra who is watching the situation with relish, “Tell you what, it’s your lucky day I’m playing hero, got me the best merchant in the galaxy. She could get you an upgrade to those parts. Really, didn’t think I needed it till I got the joint ball with micro bands. Swings like a charm now.” He shows off his arm rotation, grinning. </p>
<p>Grot coos, amazed, “You finally got that backswing working again! Hate to say it but it’s been too long since I’ve seen your one-handed axe throw.” He shoots a wink to Vetra whose eyes crease in amusement, “You’d have to look far and wide to see a Krogan with better aim.”</p>
<p>“Ah, lay off it, Grot. Those stories are as old as your first Rite of Union.” </p>
<p>“If that story’s getting old, you ever gunna get around to retiring?”  </p>
<p>“Retire, retire, retire. You Urdnots are always looking to get back into the camps.” </p>
<p>“Someone’s gotta comfort the women, Nakmor. We can’t all be ragers.” </p>
<p>“The day you dig my grave is the day I’ll retire, old timer.”</p>
<p>A bittersweet even forlorn sigh falls from Grot’s lips, “A sad honor that’ll be.” He says sincerely. They knock heads one last time before Grot saunters down deeper into the colony tunnels with a heavy step on his left foot. </p>
<p>“Old buddy of mine,” Drack explains, “We mined together when our quads had barely dropped. He’s one of the main builders in the Urdnot clan, especially good with pipework. In more than one way.” He winks to Vetra who laughs, “Gross.” </p>
<p>They all share the laughter and Vetra offers to make contact with Grot again in case he does want any synthetic upgrades. They find their way out of the docking zone and into the throne room where the throne sits on a large triple platform of sturdy pocketed rock. It sits high above, arms wide for the strongest Krogan arms with a tall back coming into two harsh spikes and before it dug deep into the ground is the arena pit. Glass barriers make it easy to see down into the sand and scarce vegetation and the walls, dirty with residual blood and blows are reinforced, sturdy enough to handle a serious fight. Above, the lights are off, large and likely high voltage so every detail, every splatter can be cheered for. Booming speakers are situated in the back wall for announcements. The throne is empty. </p>
<p>About the arena are crude, hand written posters for the clans battling that week, the price of tickets to watch the fight and the cost of the lowest starting bet. Several Krogan hunters are leaning against the glass, discussing profit for that week’s fight. “Blood Thrasher’s going into the ring. I would bet twice what you’re going for.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but didn’t you hear? He was injured jumping out an exploding shuttle when the worm smashed through the interior. His leg, I think it’s still bothering him.” </p>
<p>“Ravanor Brenk should be around here. Probably laying low, considering.” Vetra says, watching carefully as other Krogan eye them, making talk of their presence. As she steps away and Drack eyes a back corner, a voice, nasally and pitched but not any less intimidating booms, “Nexus!” </p>
<p>Vetra is pushed back by the sheer force of the jump that lands a Krogan right in front of Ryder who had been looking into the arena. He turns, grunting with the hand that grabs his chest plate so hard it creaks and the body cam lens cracks under the pressure, rippling the screen at the edges with static. Ryder’s hands shoot up, pushing back on the shoulders of the Krogan pinning him to the glass of the of the arena. His back folds slightly, tipping him over the edge. </p>
<p>“Morda!” Drack orders, as she snarls into Ryder’s face, “Who allowed you in here?” There’s an old wound at her throat explaining the damage to her voice which rings higher than other Krogan. “There shouldn’t be any Initiative bastards on Elaaden let alone at New Tuchanka!” She slams him against the barrier, Ryder feeling the glass crackling beneath him. In his helmet a warning light beeps on, the integrity of the suit dropping with her crushing grip. </p>
<p>“Morda, listen to me!” Drack snaps, arm coming out to grab her. She lifts Ryder back again to slam him and he takes his chances, dropping his weight and jerking her wrist down ever so slightly. At this angle he kicks his legs out knocking her footing and distracting her enough so he can slip between her stance and use his jump jet to push him out from between her legs and behind her. She whirls around, determined to get one last hit in before her senior Nakmor steps in, and punches the stone floor full force, barely missing the Pathfinder’s head when he rolls out of the way and back rolls back to his feet. Pieces of stone explode around her fist. </p>
<p>“It’s the Pathfinder, Morda! Nakmor all mighty!” Drack slams his hand to her chest, forcing her back and she snaps, “They’re all the same! And you’re a traitor! Kesh said you got a new job.” Her tone is bitter, harsh with her fury. They begin circling one another slowly, drawing attention from all the Krogan in the vicinity. “Surprise you’ve dropped low enough to become some human’s heavy.”</p>
<p>Ryder is breathing hard, his hands working to fix the dent in his chest plate so it will stop squeezing him. Vetra stands to his side, her hand close to her gun but only for security. The camera has taken damage but Reyes is more worried about Ryder, on the edge of his seat. There’s a lot at stake here, and his own is on the Pathfinder. </p>
<p>“Overlord of the Krogan in Heleus. Has a better ring for the Nakmor clan than underling to the puny human Pathfinder.” She jeers, throwing a fist Drack slides his head out of the way for. She tosses another, moving him again several steps so she can stand before Ryder once more, “This is the Celebrated Pathfinder from the Hyperion? I’ve never stood this close…” A deep, stomach filled breath of anger, “To a Pathfinder before.” She leans down into his face, breath hot on his visor, “Because the Krogan were never allowed one.” </p>
<p>“Morda!” Drack yanks her back, and they knock heads, pushing each other, hands on one another’s arms and shoulders. “So you’re defending the Nexus?!” She snarls, the crowd echoing around them, roaring to life and cheering on the two clan members. Fists pump, the high ceiling swallowing the noise and echoing it out into the sky. “After everything that happened to us?”</p>
<p>“We need the Pathfinder.” Drack reasons, “He’s the only one who can handle the vaults and restore the planets. After everything that’s happened to us, we have to be resilient!” </p>
<p>“We <em>are</em> resilient!” She flings back, “No thanks to the Initiative! I thought this was our fresh start, not the place for blatant disregard to be the final nail to the Krogan coffin!” They lock hands, elbows tight, feet puncturing the stone with weight. </p>
<p>“You blame the Pathfinder for that?” </p>
<p>“He wears the brand! Why are you here anyway?” Her eyes narrow, tear bared in a grimace. A tremble has overtaken her limbs, the struggle to stay upright keeping most of her attention. But she has claimed the title of Overlord by her brute power and ability to lead. She is not weak, even if she looks so to her elder. “Have you come to see what a successful colony looks like? One that won’t turn to dust under the pressure of Andromeda?” Laughter follows her comments. They know of the disasters of the first outposts sent by the Initiative and what became of its people. They turn their figurative noses up at the failure which cost the Initiative pride and resources after acting as though the Krogan were unworthy of the effort. </p>
<p>“We’re here for the planet and for those still trying to make a life here in Heleus. We’re here for the Krogan.” Ryder speaks up, walking forward into the ring. His helmet is off, his face bare, “We want to make a place for everyone together in this new galaxy.” </p>
<p>Ah, that resolute, firm voice that has inspired so many so far. </p>
<p>A wave of uncertainty ripples through the crowd, some in surprise at his courage to walk between two Krogans about to fall into blood rage and fight till the fall of one or both warriors. Others are distrustful, hissing at his words, and some watch in a guarded hope. The word of the Pathfinder’s touch has reached all corners of the universe and they are thirsty. </p>
<p>Morda tears her hands free, yanking away from Drack and she shoves past Ryder, knocking him back, “The Krogan <em>will</em> thrive. And the Initiative will pay. Whether you’re there or not.” She turns to him in the crowd of her people for a last time, “You may have proved something to the Angara but you have shown me <em>nothing.</em>”</p>
<p>Drack walks up to his Pathfinder, shaking out his one prosthetic arm, “Hell of a grip, that one. I was worried about this happening.” He takes hold of the chest plate and pops it back into place for Ryder. “Should get this fixed.” He says calmly and Vetra murmurs, “I think I see our signal.” She turns over her shoulder and they see a flashing light from the back of the cave. </p>
<p>Ryder runs a hand thoughtfully across his chest, and says again, with depth, “Thanks, Drack.”</p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>They meet with Jorgal Strux’s inside man, Brenk who watched the entire skirmish from a dark corner. His rushed, whispered words of warning are a cold splash of water up the spine. The Remnant ship and its drive core, a stable and immensely powerful source of energy is Morda’s focus. Brenk murmurs of her desire for revenge so potent and violent that she plans to use the drive core to build a bomb to either take the Nexus by force or to punish it thoroughly. The danger of the drive core, even before made into a lethal weapon is high. Scavengers have heard wind of the drive core, and also have taken interest in taking its power for their own. </p>
<p>His words are serious and although he is unwilling to offer any other help than his information, it’s a large lead into the need for intervention. They leave the colony, the watchful eyes too piercing, so they can talk freely. Once outside, in the hot sands, Director Tann is back on comms. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder.” He demands, words clipped and stressed, “This must be stopped. We cannot allow such blatant terrorism. You need to return to the Nexus so we can regroup and your body cam can be repaired-“</p>
<p>“Director Tann,” Ryder interjects, “Respectfully, we don’t have time. I’m going to head right there and intercept the drive core. It can’t fall into the wrong hands.”</p>
<p>“It can’t.” Tann agrees, although there’s an air of hesitation or an argument he still wants to make lingering beneath. “I knew-“ He hisses, but then hesitates and says as though he’s just realized he’s still on call, “We’ll be in touch. The camera is still functioning but don’t let it run out of power.” He clicks off. Reyes is curious to what <em>exactly</em> the director knew about all this. </p>
<p>Ryder turns to each member of his team, seeing Peebee waving from the Nomad’s open door and says, “Ready for another long one?”</p>
<p>“I’m driving.” Drack confirms, grinning widely. </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>The Nomad approaches the Remnant ship towering in the sand, a remaining mystery of a force long gone, altered, half vanished. Lights shimmer and dance, blue against the dark metals of the ships outer layer. It is still living, even half buried beneath the sand. Soundless, it is slowly sinking down into the depths, slipping away. </p>
<p>Drack speeds across the dunes, music from their player loud in the speakers and making the body cam’s audio crackle. Ryder is in the passenger seat, leading by SAMs scans of activity. The Nomad jerks, jumping into the air over a hill of sand and Drack laughs, Peebee cheering in the back. They turn through an arching pathway that is still passable even turned half on its side. Shadows run over their faces, the cool weight of the Remnant tower bringing the temperature to bearable. </p>
<p>Whipping the Nomad around to take shelter behind a wall, the wheels take a sharp spin and the party lets out a yell of surprise. “Ow!” A head bumps a window unceremoniously as Drack motions, “Scavengers are still hanging around. Guess danger never rests.”</p>
<p>“There isn’t a chance they opened the door with a blast. It’s not worked on any of the vaults so far.” Peebee says, “They must not have the drive core yet.” She was filled in on the way to the ship and is plenty excited for another chance to work with Remnant and collect whatever her hands can carry. </p>
<p>“Let’s go.” Ryder says, helmet in place. He wipes the camera lens with one the back of his thumb quickly before jumping out of the Nomad, shotgun in hand. His shields load up, the sound a whoosh in the camera audio. He gets on the comms, finding a good place to see from around the sharp angled wall, “Krogan vehicles are still in the area. Think we had a showdown?”</p>
<p>“Looks like these are recent camps for the scavengers. And those parts are definitely Krogan. Morda’s team might’ve been ambushed.” Drack says, “Bastards.” </p>
<p>“The turrets are still activated. It’s possible the Remnant took the Krogan down.” Vetra responds.</p>
<p>“Would have been nice if they had taken down the scavengers too.” Peebee chimes in with a melodramatic sigh, “Guess we have to do everything.” </p>
<p>“Stay safe, team.” Ryder says over the comms as they all in unity move out to neutralize the enemy, and if Reyes wasn’t convinced of the Pathfinder team’s harmony, their compatibility, he is starting to doubt the chaos theory. Or maybe everything just looks golden against the darkest black. </p>
<p>Now that Reyes is thinking about the strain between leadership and their shining hero gaining autonomy he wonders. Does Director Tann know anything about the AIs’ interfaces? He glances into the video feed, watching Ryder throw down a barrier for him and Peebee to throw grenades into the scattered camps with their half haphazard tents, sending them into a blinding, explosive chaos. As long as the battle has the director’s attention…</p>
<p>Keema calls him on his comms, pulling him completely away from his spying. </p>
<p>“Vidal.” She says, her voice sharp, angry, disturbed. </p>
<p>“Keema, you sound..” He begins but she doesn’t need his words; she has something to communicate, “There’s been another murder. It’s the sixth one. I won’t stand for this.” </p>
<p>He glances at Ryder’s body cam; it’s jerking with his running, the turret blasts kicking up sand and debris around his feet. He sets the video to record to his personal files just in case and says to Keema, “I’ll be right there.” </p>
<p>It’s an Angara from the slums, her body bruised and splattered with her own blood. Dr. Nakamoto has taken her to his medical station, resting her battered, broken form on a cot. Keema seethes outside, her eyes furious and narrow. The brutality of the murder insists a grudge and emotion, anger, disgust, even hatred. Her neck has been cut, the wound crusting, likely from the previous night and she has Oblivion in her system. </p>
<p>“I can’t stand this.” She says to Reyes who leans against the wall beside her. “As if there is not enough suffering and death. This.. deliberate.. hateful crime.” </p>
<p>The victim’s scan showed her to be paying for the Outcast protection fees, although she was barely scraping by. Sloane was making money from her presence, the drug den confirming the Angaran woman to be a regular for the last several weeks. She is not a target for the aggression of a slighted pirate queen. </p>
<p>“This doesn’t seem to be a message from Sloane.” He notes, Keema turning out to the open sky outside the walls of the slums away from the crackle of bleeding electricity and the soft simmering of acid rain puddles below the rusting metal stairs. She walks away, the emotional toll a heavy burden for her aching soul. Her arms come around her, and she leans her elbows gently on a railing. </p>
<p>“How many of us will die until we can find peace again?” She murmurs when he joins her. “Why does the Charlatan let our people go to early graves? What is one silent leader to an oppressive one?” </p>
<p>The weight of the silence holds. Finally, he says, “I’ll figure this out, Keema.” </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>Reyes doesn’t have time to review all of the footage so he resorts to scrubbing through and catching details that seem important before Director Tann gets smart and deletes the files. Team Pathfinder defeat the scavengers and find little trace of any Krogan from the colony alive at the entrance to the Remnant ship. A vicious battle had ensued for the precious insides of the ship but neither side could get in and the remains of explosives and dynamite litter the ground in failure. Ryder can access these unknowns. The door opens, gliding open to certain kind of heaven. </p>
<p>But Director Tann had been smart. There is no video for the inside of the ship. It’s been cut. Reyes isn’t surprised. He leans back in his chair, scrubbing through the rest of the file. It does lead back to Ryder outside at the Nomad. The drive core had not been in the ship. Merely a creaking, echoing ghost of what once was is the leftover and yet equally overwhelming reminder of the technology they don’t fully understand. The fact that the video continues here without issue catches Reyes’ attention. Is it the doing of the director? He isn’t quite caught up, but when he finds himself back at the live feed, Ryder has taken the Nomad out to the Flophouse district. The journey was far, hot and his team was tired, Peebee and Vetra sleeping in the back with Ryder moving about the cabin area carefully to prepare them for another fight. Drack drove. They are currently assessing the valley of arranged gang leaders, drug dens, shacks and towers for look-out. </p>
<p>They travelled here because SAM can scan and track the energy waves of the drive core. Its range is mind blowing, revolutionary. The possibilities open a thousand doors and some of them lead into the light and others lead directly into fire. </p>
<p>It’s been a long day for both Reyes and Ryder, although the Elaaden sun doesn’t reflect the passing of time. The Pathfinder indicates to the lower level of the array of buildings where they keep their generators out of the sun beneath the reaching arch of the valley’s caves. SAM has told him of a tunnel beneath the outside generators and simple water tanks. There’s a room, big enough for an operation and protected enough to be suspect of something. It’s got a double password door security. </p>
<p>Ryder’s voice is breathy, but it can all be attributed to the heat. He wants to infiltrate but not confront any of the Flophouse gang members if possible. Drack complains about sneaking around and Peebee asks him if he’ll ever be satisfied in smashing stuff, if there’s ever enough ass to kick. He gives her the point. They work across the empty, too hot sands, using brief camouflage techniques to blend in with the tans and browns. The scalding heat makes the area lazy and dawdling, those on the lookout posts gun in hand and feet kicked up. Who in their right mind would travel the desert where even bones can catch fire to take a shot at loaded gang leaders? They haven’t had an issue in weeks. Just the slow rumble of transport moving with salvage, junkers making their extra buck. Ryder takes advantage, slipping into the shadows and around the generators buzzing loudly in the hot air. </p>
<p>One lone Krogan stands guard by the door, glancing about with his gun in hand. </p>
<p>“A Krogan. This is getting more and more fishy.” Drack grunts, glancing over their shoulders up into the sunlight to the lookout posts which are paying this direction little attention. “I’ll handle him.” He slips out of their cover, moving swift for such a big, hefty soldier. </p>
<p>“Do you think Morda would stash away the drive core out here in this place?” Peebee says incredulously, shoulder to shoulder with Ryder. Vetra agrees, “It’s far too out of her character. And it doesn’t benefit New Tuchanka at all. The fact that the drive core wasn’t even in the ship to begin with makes me wonder.” </p>
<p>Drack calls them over, dragging the unconscious guard around to the side and out of the way. Ryder hacks the door with his omni-tool, forcing it open. A quick neutralizing chamber later and they have snuck their way into the Flophouse den called ‘Misery.’ The title can strike one as pessimistic, a reflection of the situation on Elaaden’s surface, or the purpose of the den itself, to cause untold sufferings. Inside are several Krogan that Drack recognize as Strux supporters. The situation is dawning on him. </p>
<p>“It’s not Morda at all..” He says, and this sends the elder into a blind attack, his fists pummeling young and old Krogan and his roars of emotion and blood rage hitting against every wall and ceiling of the room. Pain echoes against the basic metal walls and creaking stairs. There are chemicals being stored in giant vats, several large screens of formulas partially written out with brief notes randomly dispersed throughout. The drive core is sitting in the center of the room, the blind energy visible in its glowing cores gently rotating. Peebee is taking a scan, her face brightening, “It really could power the entirety of New Tuchanka like I thought! It’s seriously got a kick.” </p>
<p>Drack is taking a walk to cool off, let his blood come down from its boil. He didn’t hesitate with any of the Krogan working to create a bomb for Strux at the expense of Morda’s honor. Clan Jorgal has betrayed its people for power and revenge. They will not wake without pain and a plausible regret for their actions. Banishing them permanently to the Flophouse to be nothing greater than gang heavies is a forgiving punishment. There has been a mole in the colony digging away at their foundation. </p>
<p>Ryder calls the Tempest for retrieval of the drive core and erases the data collected by the clan for creating a bomb from Remnant technology. The Tempest lands in the sand, Gil sending out a transportation crate to move the device. The rest of the Flophouse watches but they refuse to get involved and attack with such obvious power differences. They wait for another day. </p>
<p>Director Tann is not quite satisfied even with the imminent threat taken care of. </p>
<p>“What if other Krogan are still planning something?” He demands. “It isn’t enough until the security of the Nexus is guaranteed.”</p>
<p>Drack mutters things unrepeatable under his breath. </p>
<p>But they return to New Tuchanka to break the news and relieve Morda of any clan division that is being created by Strux’s desire for destruction. Sitting on the throne, she glares down at Ryder and one of her closest warriors bellows, “Get away from Morda! Haven’t you done enough?”</p>
<p>Morda holds a hand up to silence her, then says with a cold ice of someone ready to murder, “I’ve heard my good warriors faced death at the bombing site. Brenk told me you’ve murdered good Krogan to get into that ship. To take the drive core from our colony.” She pounds her fist into the arm of the throne, creating such a noise that the roof shakes, “How many lies do you think the Krogan will eat, Nexus?” </p>
<p>Ryder holds his ground, “I did retrieve the drive core. But not from the ship. And I didn’t murder any Krogan.”</p>
<p>She slams up from the stone seat, “I said how many lies will you feed us! Will you have the same confidence when I throw you into the arena and beat that head of yours in?” She stomps down the steps. </p>
<p>“Clan Jorgal is inciting old Krogan debts and blood wars.” Drack says and she stops in her tracks, standing on the final step. He holds up his omni-tool and shows the pictures he’s taken, the site for researching the bomb and the faces of the Krogan present, bloodied, their face markings a sentence of guilt. “They were trying to make you responsible for war crimes and sully the Nakmor name against the Nexus. Strux wants the throne.” </p>
<p>“He wouldn’t.” Her words a ghost of a breath. The shock is great and horrible and her youth shows, “That- his grandfather- he made peace. We had a Rite of Union for every generation after.” She says in raw hurt, coming down the steps to see the faces of those betraying their colony. “We resolved those issues..” The pain in her expression makes Drack put a sympathetic hand to her arm and she finally finds her clan member elder, her eyes no longer clouded with anger. </p>
<p>“Brenk must be brought to justice.” She finally says, her words without falter. “I demand Brenk be brought to face me!” She spins the order around to other Nakmor Krogan who take the directive to immediate action. She turns to Ryder who has taken off his helmet to face her straight on. </p>
<p>“You have endured bias and criticism.” Morda says, “And yet your eyes are honest. I do not know yet of what I think of you, but I respect your relationship with Drack who is deserving of all of our respect for his accomplishments and your wit to figure out this scheme happening amongst us. You could be a strong ally.” Taking hold of Ryder’s face, she knocks their heads together, his cry of surprise and pain followed by her appreciative, “Thank you, Pathfinder.” </p>
<p>He holds his head, the thudding of the spot turning immediately to what sounds like a headache in his groans. Drack bursts into a cackle, clapping Ryder’s back and sending him a step in the other direction, “Your first step to being a true Krogan!” </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>Morda beats Brenk to his last breath in the arena, the lights bright overtop them and the blood splattering so high the glass has flecks glimmering on them. Krogan are cheering for the defeat of a weakling, and with Morda’s undeniable victory, they align closer to the Nakmor Overlord. Her fists, dripping with blood raise into the air and she roars, inciting a wave of roaring that makes the sinkhole echo the sound. It’s magnetic and terrifying. </p>
<p>Ryder is invited to rest a few days at the colony while the cultural banishment occurs. First, the arena defeat. Then after Brenk is revived, his public shaming. Afterwards, he and any who still align with him are thrown into the sinkhole to punish them for their weakness and betrayal. The brutality is both reserved and vicious. There will be second thoughts by the next traitor who believes they can pull one over Morda the Terror. Jorgal Strux has become a wanted Krogan.</p>
<p>Director Tann lifts the mandatory body cam, feeling reassured that the danger gone. He expects reports filed appropriately but for now, the camera goes back to sleep and Reyes no longer has a direct feed following Ryder’s eyes. He must feel back in power. The camera will need to be retired anyway with the damage it’s taken across the mission. The drive core sits on the Tempest. </p>
<p>Following the sinkhole punishment, Morda demands an audience with the Pathfinder. Liam has come from the Tempest to take the video of their conversation, as Morda puts “a monumental moment in Heleus history.”</p>
<p>“I knew it was hot out here, but you didn’t tell me I was going flash fried.” He light heartedly says as he sets up the video, unaware of another set of eyes watching through his lens. Ryder chuckles, “Glad to see someone else is feeling the heat.”</p>
<p>“Death Valley couldn’t hold a candle to this!” They laugh, the space before the throne being set up for their serious conversation. A stone bowl and red dye sits at the bottom of the throne stairs and a nice, smooth leather mat has been placed underneath it for Ryder to kneel on. It will be a ceremonious conversation. Ryder turns to Drack who is picking his teeth with a bone. </p>
<p>“Shouldn’t it be you instead of me?” </p>
<p>“I’m already a Nakmor. This is great history, kid. I know you’ll do us right.” </p>
<p>From out of the gathering Krogan, Nakmor Bel comes forward and says, “Pathfinder. It is time. Kneel before the throne.” </p>
<p>Liam steps back, settling next to Drack who gives him an elbow and jostles the camera. Earns him a disgruntled look. Ryder turns away and finds his place in the center of the rug, wearing his armor freshly cleaned with his helmet sitting to his left. From the high ceilings large, blood red banners begin to drop to block away the sunlight feeding in from the outside. A wind from their weight rushes into the throne room, washing over everyone and blowing across the walls. Darkness soon falls upon them as well as silence. </p>
<p>Lights flash on, the throne suddenly bright in the spotlight. Morda sits upon it, looking down and earns a healthy barrage of noise, creating a tornado of Krogan support. Beside her is the Shaman, watching for the authenticity of the ritual. Her hand silences them. “A year is a brief unit of time to a Krogan,” Morda begins, her voice carrying deep into the caverns, “But in this last year the Krogan cannot deny history has been made, even repeated in many ways.” Assent ripples through the shadowed colony. “We learn and must rely on distrust for other species. Krogan trust Krogan. But,” She stands, “Today we recognize this is not a finite truth. Krogan stand apart and we see the efforts of one human amongst many who betray us.” A light comes on above Ryder’s head, his straight back clear in the video. “Pathfinder. You have done us a great service. You’ve earned a Nakmor’s trust and you have a chance to align a sovereign Krogan nation with your cause.” Each step is punctuated with her words as she comes down towards him, “Revenge is not a feeling smothered easily. I hunger to avenge what has been taken from us. But you have the chance to build the first bridge to New Tuchanka. Write a new story.” </p>
<p>Standing tall before Ryder’s kneeling form, she picks up the bowl of red dye. “New Tuchanka has needs. Return to us the drive core and provide your services to the Remnant vault and we will recognize an outpost on Elaaden where we can begin relations.” </p>
<p>Ryder raises his head, looking up into her brightly lit and heavily shadowed face. The drive core, the very device capable of creating a bomb of immeasurable strength, the endless power to fuel and quench the colony’s struggles for stability, the tool to either repeat or change history. The level of trust needed is immense. Tense silence sits on every shoulder. The Pathfinder can take a stand against the Nexus here or defend the exiling decided by his organization. </p>
<p>“Nakmor Morda, the Pathfinder team offers you the drive core in hopes the colony continues to thrive.” Ryder finally says, bowing his head to show his respect, his acknowledgement of her status. He exposes his weakness as one warrior to another. Instantaneously the room fills with great glee. Pounding echoes up as warriors beat on their armor in excitement and harsh voices call up with respect. The Shaman begins to beat a drum with one large drumstick, the rhythm resounding underneath all other noise. </p>
<p>Morda lets out a loud, crackling laugh, pleased to no end. She demands, “Raise your head!” And when he does she smears a thumb of red dye across his forehead, “So be! You are recognized by the Overlord Nakmor Morda! Stand!” </p>
<p>He rises to his feet and she says, “To friends and prosperity!” And once more she head butts him forehead to forehead, holding him by the arm to make sure his knees don’t buckle. It would not be right to have a Krogan falter under a friendship head butt. Her arm comes around him, and she raises a fist, “To our Pathfinder!” Words both violent and merry erupt around them in the circle of light illuminating the two. She draws him a little closer, teeth large and shining, “Until we get our own, right?”</p>
<p>Reyes watches as Ryder gives up a direct source of power, a trump card. Wonders if he’s blind with hope. Or if there’s something that isn’t being said here. Either way, both the Nexus and New Tuchanka live to see another day and the Pathfinder keeps his status as beloved hero. </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>Shena contacts Evfra, curious. The knife used to murder the Angaran woman has a ridge unknown to typical weapons found on Kadara. It is not Initiative stolen nor Kett remastered. She is not the only Angara killed recently by a slash to the throat to bleed them. Evfra is curt with his response, although when he hears of the assassinations, he tells Shena of the Roekaar. Kadara Port was once a fully functioning Angaran port until the Kett drove them into hiding or vanished them for gene washing. It is possible Roekaar hide in the hills of Kadara. </p>
<p>But Shena has yet to find definitive proof. Murder, beatings, disappearances, these are not uncommon to the Port and now with Sloane tightening security because of the Kett crowding usual roads and running through the hills, it is even more difficult to gain access to the badlands and the murder scenes in the market. There has yet to be a murder weapon found. Angara are not the only victims of this type of killing and Keema’s Angara hunters confirm no sightings yet of Roekaar armor or traces. It is possible it is revenge killing or even worse, random targets. </p>
<p> Charlatan agents are being rounded up by Outcast guards if they reveal their alignment. He will need to lay low. The Tempest’s return to the Port pushes Sloane even closer to the edge, her iron fist grinding against the people. </p>
<p>The Pathfinder has unfinished business which Reyes hopes he’s a part of. The ship arrives and news amongst the Krogan spread of Ryder’s acceptance ritual as well as Nakmor Morda’s honorable loyalty to the survival and success of the colony. Krogan who work at the Port as heavies, young males mostly who have credits to earn and adulthood to grasp, demand to see the remaining stain on Ryder’s forehead as proof of a ceremony they wish they had seen with their own eyes. Drack draws them all up, arms full of aspiring warriors and he tells them of deep secrets in Elaaden’s sands that Morda has uncovered for Krogan prosperity and about her quick front jab that knocked a tooth right out of Brenk’s head. </p>
<p>Liam tirelessly works for permission to enter to the slums and secure parking in order to send the Nomad out into the badlands. Sloane is likely loathe to give access to the Pathfinder who is rocking the boat more than she probably thought possible. But she has no reason to prevent them and if he were to defeat Kett, manage to improve her quality of life or die out under acidic clouds and war ships what is she to deny him?</p>
<p>The access is granted. There is no need to disarm in the slums, the brittle concept of civilization and the cease fire barely keeping the violence contained. The various lingering and rusting panels and pieces left for construction remain untouched, jobs having fallen through or workers dying unexpectedly leaving gaps in the walkways and main structures. The deep cavern’s high walls keep the smells from choking the air from the lungs, but the acidic pinch is too deep in the soil to be simple spread thin by a breeze from over the guard wall. Plant life grows in the greyish rocks, gnarled with intent to live no matter the odds. </p>
<p>Eyes follow the Pathfinder and Liam talking amongst each other. Collective intel jumps about and Outcast pirates who enjoy the seedy nightlife or the adrenaline thrill of jobs outside the protection of the Warden watch him, relishing the idea of being the infamous Pathfinder killer. They care little of his accomplishments elsewhere and with a drink in their blood, they’re ravenous for celebrity in the way Kadara knows best. </p>
<p>Yelling and the echo of machinery working are coupled with the faint sound of the bass from Tartarus, which keeps all hours of the day on Fridays. The neon lights welcome those from beneath the dwellings and various overhead structures. Electricity from heavily used wiring sparkles like fireworks around their heads. Across the empty lots not yet under any construction, cheap but costly in effective business, the Warden’s gates sit firmly against the open sky and promise of aggression outside. But even more impressive is the monolith in the distance, touching the clouds like Olympus, undefeatable and larger than life. It gleams with hidden knowledge in the falling sun, evening overtaking the land. </p>
<p>Reyes has an upstairs room rented from Kian who receives favors for the reduced price in Tartarus. Many of the rooms on the upper floor are used for private dances and paid time between the dancers and customers or are rented to keep conversation from being overheard, whether it be a drug lord or a gang meeting. Beneath him the early customers are dancing to the thumping electronic music, typically high on their first hit of Oblivion for the night. He appreciates the room to do business in the confusion and chaos when the partying really picks up. Tonight Zia wishes to see him and he has little reason not to invite her in, especially if she has word of a good job. </p>
<p>A waitress presses the call button, her sweet voice saying, “Customer for you, Vidal.” </p>
<p>Zia wouldn’t be this early… He reaches for the speaker, “Let them in.” </p>
<p>The door glides open, letting in the sound of the music and neon shine from the bar lights downstairs. And it is not Zia standing in the doorway, but instead someone far more unanticipated. Someone he’s been waiting to see for weeks. Someone he’s been watching for those same weeks. </p>
<p>The Pathfinder walks in, in his full armor and helmet underarm. The weight of his boots makes a satisfying sound against the dark floor. And suddenly they’re alone, the door closed and the room falling back into quiet. They look at one another and for all his inside knowledge, Reyes is caught off guard. </p>
<p>“Finally came for that drink you promised.” The Pathfinder says smoothly, lips crooking ever so slightly at the edge. Terribly handsome, whether you mean it for it to be or not, Ryder. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder!” Reyes says, and even he can’t contain all of his pleasant surprise. His heart is racing just beneath his cool façade, “Fancy that, I have a glass just for you.” Minutely he indicates to the tray prepared on the table. After all this time looking at Ryder’s private expressions and listening to him talk to his comrades, his friends even, it is thrilling to observe how his face changes in front of him. How he reacts specifically to Reyes Vidal, <em>his</em> contact in the Collective. </p>
<p>Luckily for him, by chance more than anything, he hasn’t started drinking yet and the glasses remain turned over beside his whiskey bottle. He offers Ryder a seat in the armed chair beside the table and perpendicular to himself on the couch, close but not too close. Friendly but not aggressive. Ryder takes the seat, slowly, and rests his helmet on the glass table. Reyes, expertly flipping the cup and twisting off the cap, pours Ryder a healthy splash then himself the same. It sparkles in the red hue of the low lit lamps. It sparkles in red like Ryder’s eyes did when they first met at Kralla’s Song. </p>
<p>And does he look well. The sunburn he saw budding on those cheeks back at The Paradise has browned into a fine tan, his eyelashes pretty against darkened skin. His scars have faded with the vitamin D and his freckles are melding nicely across his clean nose. He seems as contained as usual, although his eyes are vibrant, hot as coal beneath a fire. Covered hands take the drink. </p>
<p>“So you’ve come to see me.” Reyes tests and they clink a cheers, the clear glass fragile looking in Ryder’s gloved hands, “I’ve come to see you.” He confirms, sipping, words light. His tone tells Reyes he knows exactly what he’s doing. His eyes say the same. </p>
<p>Reyes feels hot at the throat and deep in his stomach, a sensation he enjoys immensely. He will have to change tactics, “Since you’re here,” He lowers his glass and folds his leg at the ankle to his knee, “I never got the chance to tell you that Evfra obtained Vehn Terev without issue and his trial proceeded smoothly. Thanks to you.” His arms slip across the back of the couch, casually charming, relaxed. </p>
<p>Ryder’s warm gaze settles on him as he leans back into the chair, drink resting on the table. “You helped.” He defends, then his eyes narrow, sharp, fox-like, “A little.” He quips, flippant and playful. How alive he looks, with that fresh whiskey heat settled on his tongue and those eyes that don’t wander. </p>
<p>“Always nice to be recognized.” Reyes says, entertained by their game of wit. The whiskey is as much an intoxicant as drinking in the Pathfinder himself. He exudes a certain level of power, something earned by rite of passage, something bestowed by the public. How he longs to figure out how SAM and his relationship works and if he’s lucky-</p>
<p>“You’re staring.” Ryder tells him mildly, coming forward to rest his elbows on his knees. If Reyes reads into the movement, it is in order get closer to himself. The room, with its dark corners and plush, almost soundproof walls, is invitingly secluded, drawing them together if the mood is just right. </p>
<p>Reyes’ smile widens ever so slightly and he mirrors Ryder’s stance, “You’re looking tanner than I remember you. Been on a vacation to the beach recently?”</p>
<p>Ryder’s face opens, familiar and charming. “I wish.” He sighs, appreciating the nonchalant humor. The humor fades though and he turns those intelligent eyes back up from a thoughtful pause. “Can I ask you a question?” He rubs the first knuckle of his hand with his thumb. </p>
<p>“You can ask me anything, Pathfinder.” The lilt of his accent makes the words inviting and with the whiskey in his stomach and a pretty soldier before him, he means those words. Whether he answers honestly is another matter. </p>
<p>“How long have you and ‘Shena’ been involved with the Resistance?” </p>
<p>Testing his connections? Reyes answers truthfully, little reason to lie, “A few months. As you probably know, this used to be an Angaran port before the Kett invaded. The Resistance pulled its people back away from the onslaught of attacks but when Sloane ‘saved’ the port Evfra wanted eyes and ears back amongst the ranks. It took me some time to gain the connections, but Evfra believed people would be more loose lipped around their own kind, be it human to human, Angara to Angara. Thus Shena was born.” </p>
<p>Ryder listens, his glass in between his hands for something to rub his thumbs along as he thinks. When the explanation finishes, he looks up and questions, “’Shena?’” His interest is clear. He doesn’t know the translation. </p>
<p>Reyes drinks, the burn so sweet he thinks he might finish the glass. Everything is falling into place. “It’s the Angaran word for ‘mouth.’” He waits, watches Ryder closely under his eyelashes, the dip of his eyes and the way he looks at the invitation, “I’m good with words.” He finishes, the annunciation on ‘words’ to trap any other ideas Ryder might be having. </p>
<p>He swears he sees Ryder’s lip curve to a smirk behind his glass, “’Among other things?’” He echoes, words from their first meeting. So he remembers it well. The naïve school boy straight out of military school he thought Ryder to be is all grown up. He doesn’t blush at innuendos. The whiskey begins to smolder in his gut, fueling a fire; it won’t be his only opportunity to make Ryder blush if he plays his cards right. </p>
<p>“Never had a complaint.” Reyes says, expression speaking equally for underlining meanings. </p>
<p>Ryder makes a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement, amused, and finishes his whiskey in one neat swallow. “Congratulations.” </p>
<p>“Is this your first time in a place like this?” Reyes asks, setting his own empty glass down as well. He wants to find Ryder’s weakness, his boyhood and use it for his advantage. </p>
<p>“Place like this?” He repeats, then understands, “Ah,” His eyes crinkle, “I’ve been to clubs before. In the academy.”</p>
<p>“Back before you were legal?”</p>
<p>“Clubs are for dancing.” Ryder clarifies, dodging Reyes’ attempt to corner him. </p>
<p>“I thought your record was spotless.” </p>
<p>“You’ve done your research on me, Reyes?” There it is again, his name in Ryder’s smooth voice and how he says it with such good faith, lacking any edge of resentment or distrust.  </p>
<p>“Everyone knows about you, Pathfinder.” He compliments, which doesn’t flatter. “It’s only a spot if you get caught. Not that I went all the time. Just a few to get a feeling for it.” Ryder says, reflective, eyes distant for a moment in a past life. </p>
<p>Reyes gently puts another drink in his glass, burning the expression to his memory. He looks young here and idealistic. He looks like he did when he was a cadet.  </p>
<p>“What did your father think about that?” </p>
<p>“Hm?” Ryder breaks free of his thoughts just as a comm request beeps on his omni-tool. Vetra’s voice comes through, serious and muffled with noise in the background, “Ryder, we’re going to need you in the market. There’s been a murder.” </p>
<p>The Pathfinder stands, brow drawn and serious. He is truly the people’s hero. Collecting his helmet, the drink poured for him going unseen, he announces, “I have to get going. Thanks for the drink.” The favor returned, their chemistry confirmed, Reyes knows a play at sincerity will not go unnoticed. Before Ryder is at the door, Reyes calls him. </p>
<p>“Ryder.” The first time he’s said his name instead of his title. The way he grasps Ryder’s attention makes his stomach clench. Those whiskey eyes are honest. </p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Don’t.. take this the wrong way.” He has Ryder’s full attention, “But you’re not really liked in Kadara Port.” The pinch at the brows has him holding up a hand to clarify, “What I’m saying is, you need a friend.” He folds his hands in between his legs, keeping eye contact, “Someone on the inside. I can be that person. Intel, Sloane, the badlands, whatever you need- come to me.” </p>
<p>Maybe the whiskey has settled him in just the right way, or maybe Ryder is naturally a trusting person. He gives that half smile that Reyes is becoming increasingly fond of and says, “Got it. You’re my guy.” And slips out the door, back into the noise of the club and back into role of Pathfinder. </p>
<p>“And you’re my ticket out of here.” Reyes murmurs, looking into the shimmering glass of red tinted whiskey, drawing a slow finger around the rim before throwing it back and relishing the burn.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Exposure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Murders in Kadara Port bring Reyes and Ryder closer together, professionally and naturally.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the support! From this chapter on I'm making a few larger changes but major canon plot points stay the same. (: The tags will be updated next chapter as well.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All those hours Reyes spent watching the Pathfinder and he can replay their brief time together back in his mind with such ease. The thoughtfulness from the photo… it’s there. Ryder has no qualms thinking in the presence of others, finding silence with ease if he needs it. When he’s amused he shows it with lips no strangers to a smile. They’re honest and rather say they betray his emotion, they illuminate it, opening his handsome face to be read. There’s an absence of shyness, because he lacks the need to hide. Is this Ryder outside of his circumstances? Or are these the happenings that have made him the man he is today? He wouldn’t even be the Pathfinder without a specific turn of events, tragedies to say in the least. A young man molded by his experiences and accepting of the position and its sufferings, they aren’t so different in that sense. Merely the cards they’ve been dealt and how they deal them back to the universe. He likes this Ryder, wouldn’t trade him in for anyone. Reyes doesn’t think he could seduce the man’s father in any case. </p><p>Alec Ryder’s son and the man who remembered to come have his promised drink… </p><p>“Do you think the Pathfinder will clean up the Flophouse?” Velonia muses over her drink, almond eyes moving along the customers at Kralla’s Song with practiced precision. She’s sold her salvage for the week, got her fill in credits in the bank and is drinking in celebration. Her whiskey is on the rocks, crackling cold and clean ice Voeld sourced. Of course Umi hadn’t provided the ice but spending her time on Elaaden, Velonia doesn’t drink without ice when she can help it. </p><p>“Who knows.” Reyes says neutrally, throwing a shot back. He has work yet to do but it is important to make time for his contacts lest he make himself an enemy like he is doing with Zia. She came to his room last night still bitterly annoyed about their time in the club and told him of a contract. Little did she know he had already picked up the client and the shipment was on way, bought by his credits. Ah, the fire in her eyes! She had looked over the used cup, seen the presence of another person and a scowl set so deep in her face he thought she might punish him by violence then and there. Taking the bottle, Zia had left him without another word. It will not be their final exchange. He throws back his second shot, the third looking mighty inviting. </p><p>“Things are changing, Vidal.” Velonia sighs, ice clattering nicely as she swirls the metal cup. </p><p>“I hope so.” </p><p>“It’d be bad to start dreaming this early, right? He’s just one human.” She pulls her hope back in tight to her chest then perks up, “If it isn’t Vetra!” </p><p>He looks over his shoulder to the mercenary standing behind him. “Velonia,” She says, and then her eyes flick to Reyes, calculating, assessing, “Mr. Vidal.” She knows his name, and the way she says it indicates she knows other things as well. “Having a drink? Mind if I join?” </p><p>“Of course not! Let me get you one. Your shipment of platinum was some of the cleanest yet.” Velonia stands from her seat, “It’s the least I can do.” She expertly meanders through the growing crowd and Vetra takes the empty seat, sitting and looking at him with a sharp gaze. Better to play this one carefully. </p><p>“So you and Ryder met up last night.” She says after a moment of silence. The bar noise is a buffer to their conversation being overheard unless there is intention. He taps the shot glass, “I owed him a drink.” </p><p>“A drink.” She echoes, the words like daggers in her angled mouth. </p><p>“A drink.” He repeats, lucky he is being sincere. “And I offered him information. If he so needs it.”</p><p>She searches his face with one flick of her eyes. “I know you, Vidal.” She declares, the reputation for his name proceeding faces he can’t reveal. “If you play your games here, this isn’t simply another smuggler to flip a few credits.” A warning, one he believes. Although many people have made threats to him and yet here he still stands with a shadow crown and a future whispering all the good riches he can have, including a certain whiskey eyed hero. </p><p>But it’s not good to underestimate any of the players. “I’ve learned not to play too many games.” He concedes, “I don’t like losing.”</p><p>She isn’t amused but they know she has as much influence as he does here in the Port. She’s said her piece and she only warns once. Their professional relationship remains intact though, for now. Velonia returns, a fresh glass in one hand and a drink for Vetra. With one twist of an arm, Velonia snags a chair from another table and sits, “Tell me again about iridium. I know you’ve sold some of the highest quality.” </p><p>“It’s important to find the back of moons, they’ve got the least exposed asteroids for mining.” Vetra begins, “And you should keep some of the asteroid rock, it makes sure the crystals don’t crack before you sell it.” </p><p>Shot beckoning him, Reyes only half listens as he tosses it back. His eyes catch on someone making their way to the bar, a face he hasn’t seen since an interview on Eos. Bain Massani, the notorious Kett hunter made famous for expert planet jumping and underground intel. Kadara’s Kett presence has increased recently but what a surprise. His arrival is perfectly in sync with the Pathfinder team. A coincidence? Reyes taps the empty shot glass, maybe not. He doesn’t have time to talk to him though when a message beeps on his omni-tool. An issue with the arrival of some cargo. He stands, “You’ll have to excuse me. Duty calls.” He hopes it’s just a delay but he has a strange sense just as he has with Bain that it’s likely not as innocent as he wishes. </p><p>xxx</p><p>Keema updates Reyes about the seventh murder, the one that called Ryder away. He is Angara, riddled with deep lacerations on the chest and face but the most indicative wound is the cut across the throat from the same sharp weapon as the other victims. Reyes’ has been busy searching for the shuttle log carrying his cargo so he hasn’t had time to see the body himself. But it’s been cleared for take-off. Someone signed for him. The Charlatan’s name is being implicated in the murders, whether by malicious rumor or by some fake claiming the title. It isn’t the first but it paints the Collective in a negative light and right when he’s trying to impress! At least trying to appear tame. The issue with the accusations is there hasn’t been any coverage of the crime scenes anywhere but in the market where Sloane typically has bodies pulled away and thrown into the badlands for the wildlife to tear apart into merely a fading memory. </p><p>More important than dispelling rumors without proper proof, he needs to find his cargo unless he wants to be the next stain on the market street. The Charlatan’s phantom presence can endure. Reality is only masked by political motivations, power to meld the truth or lack of information. All three are likely involved although Sloane’s own Outcast agents have been assassinated so to implicate her in these attacks seems unusual for her typical manner of enforcement. It stretches thin even for her torture methods. Those vanished from their jobs who frequent the badlands are only talked of by familiar faces, Krogan and humans both missing with no account of how. </p><p>Smoke curls up around him, the smell of cheap cigars coiling in the already warm air. Several cycling guards of the Oblivion dens chuckle darkly at the next table, whispering amongst themselves and Krogan beer. His table remains drinkless, merely several datapads filled with cargo instructions and deals still on the line. He wishes he had a cigarette but the cost of importing them all the way to Kadara gave him reason to drop the habit for the time being. A heavy for the club who sometimes travelled with Collective agents back and forth to Elaaden named Zear hasn’t come in for work in a week. He’s been counted in the missing number of victims, his disappearance too much of a coincidence not to be correlated. Kian misses the Krogan, talking of how friendly he was and how well he tossed drunken aggressors out on their asses. </p><p>One of the Asari waitresses approaches, slinky and pretty in her short pink dress and high platform boots. She swerves down, bending expertly at the hips with a small jingle from her bracelets. She sometimes dances in the cages, regularly requested because her blue skin under red light make a luscious purple. “A drink for you.” She sets down a cocktail, orange and red with a nice little slice of strawberry. He hadn’t realized they sold such drinks. Ah, the strawberry is freeze dried. </p><p>When he raises an eyebrow, she smiles, lips sparkling, “From the woman over at the bar.” With a little tilt of her head, he sees the woman staring across the dance floor at them, making sure her offering made it to his table safely. Her hair is short, tight curls kept close to her skull with strong arching dark eyebrows. She waves with her fingers, outfit dark and unmemorable, for a reason. </p><p>Reyes likes the distraction, and the attention. He lifts the drink, smelling underneath the fruit the tequila and rum and acknowledges the woman, telling the waitress, “Let her know there’s a seat open if she’d like to sit.” </p><p>With a little roll of her hips, the Asari catches attention of all the tables to the left. She’s popular. “Will do, Mr. Vidal.” Several rowdy, half-drunk pirates follow her like sharks in the water. She slips through the dance floor, tray nicely tucked beneath her arm. They will have to move faster if they want to catch her. </p><p>Overhead lights fade in, splashing white and then blue and fade away once more. His drink melds in the colors, small salt crystals glittering like diamonds. He tastes it; pretty but sweet. A flash of a cocked smile and honeyed eyes makes the tequila twist on the way down and he savors how close he can make it feel to a dark, red tinted room and a bottle he no longer has. </p><p>“You’re Vidal, right?” </p><p>Reyes looks up, tasting the syrup on his lips and sees the woman from earlier taking a seat across from him, shoulders tight and eyes strong and black. She’s not scared although her actions can be misinterpreted as such. She folds her hands on the table, and he smiles, “Who might be asking?” </p><p>She leans in, music dipping down low and deep before the drop. Excitement is picking up, and in the corner above in the bar zone defended by large iron bars a screen is playing Ryder’s battle against the Architect again. “Name’s Lachlan. Lachlan Faulkner. I’ve got a job for you, if you are who I think you are.”</p><p>“Your intel is correct, sometimes Collective agent Reyes Vidal at your service.” He finishes half the drink in one swallow, the rum fragrant in the mouth. A new flavor for a new relationship.  </p><p>“I’m looking to have some.. <em>items</em>.. delivered quickly and discreetly.” She says carefully, watching his mouth, chewing her bottom lip in an involuntary tick. She doesn’t shy when they meet gazes again, both aware of her looking. </p><p>“You’ve come to the right place.” He says smoothly, sliding her the half-finished drink by two fingers. She watches then slowly extends her own two fingers touching his so very lightly when she takes the stem of the glass and downs the other half. “Good.” She replies evenly. </p><p>“Do you have a throw away datapad with the information? I’d rather not leave a paper trail.” He asks, tapping his other jobs with one finger. She sees this and says, “Yeah.” Leans forward to reach into a back pocket and pulls out a dark screened datapad. Mirroring him, she slides it across the table with two fingers, staring hard at his face. </p><p>“I’ll contact you.” Nimbly, he lifts it by his thumb and forefinger, their hands touching one last time.  “Don’t want people getting too curious.” And this satisfies Lachlan, her dark eyes intense. </p><p>“I’ll be waiting.” She says, taking her leave and vanishing into the throng of clubbers, mashing against each other with the bass pounding through the floor. The strawberry sits at the bottom of the glass. Certainly a drink to try at least once, if just for the experience. </p><p>&gt;Do you have time?&lt;</p><p>Will it to happen… &gt;What can I do for the ever busy Pathfinder?&lt; </p><p>&gt;I’d like some of that intel you’ve got waiting on me.&lt;</p><p>If he doesn’t know better, and he knows better, Reyes would say they’re flirting. </p><p>&gt;You know where to find me.&lt;</p><p>He rises from the table, slipping his datapads back into his breast pocket and waits his turn behind several Salarians who are getting drinks, giggling and wrapping their longs limbs about one another’s shoulders. Kian grins, gliding a glass back into the upper wrack and says without looking yet at the customer, “What’s your poison?” With his lilting, strong accent giving it a pretty swell at the end of his question. </p><p>“A room for a special customer.” Reyes leans forward onto the counter, smiling through the bars. </p><p>“Aye,” Kian breathes, dark eyes critical, “Tis just you. Yeah, yeah. Your room ain’t been touched.”</p><p>“You look dissatisfied.” Reyes teases. </p><p>“Hate how you’ve got gals callin’ you buyin’ you drinks and you still get some a the best tequila I’ve laid eyes on. Got anythin’ not workin’ for ya?” He cleans another cocktail glass, sliding it up into the rungs above head. </p><p>“Just jealous you haven’t had a drink bought for you yet?” </p><p>“Aye!” Kian says heated but honest. Reyes flicks his fingers across his omni-tool, “Pour yourself a glass before you send up a bottle.” </p><p>“Mighty thanks, Vidal.” Kian grins, all white teeth in the light, “My mood’s improved already.” </p><p>Soon after he finds himself settled in the room, another waitress pings the door. Reyes lets her in, a human with bright blond hair, long and in a high ponytail. One of her arms from the shoulder down is prosthetic, dark metal fingers holding the tray. She has a scar across her lips, vertical and slightly off centered but the way it grows when she smiles is uniquely charming. “Your bottle, save one generous glass.” She slides the tray onto the table with two glasses.</p><p>“Much appreciated.” Reyes says and she drops a wink on him, the door sliding closed behind her. He begins looking over Lachlan’s job request in the meantime. The items by themselves seem innocent enough, if they’re assessed separately. But together… he hums, this is definitely weaponry. Maybe she’s a lower chain member of a gang or a newly recruited spy. She isn’t Collective and she doesn’t have the access to be Outcast who wouldn’t dare do business with a smuggler like himself anyway. </p><p>Well, he isn’t one to pry too deep into his clients’ affiliations. </p><p>Instead he thinks of the last few days… Ryder’s presence in this room, the way he sat, the way their gazes held. Whiskey warmed guts and the ever present thrum of club music up through the floor buzzing against their boots. The words being said about the Pathfinder and the threats under pirate breath. He’s heard a few things he’s unlikely to repeat. </p><p>The door pings and a waiter calls, “Customer for you, Vidal.” </p><p>He presses the unlock button and in walk Ryder and his Resistance provided Angaran soldier, Jaal. Eyes from the club, how did they look seeing such a serious and proper defender of ‘justice’ walking through the smoky atmosphere of a poorly concealed strip club? The door whishes shut and Ryder stands before his couch and table, dignified as only a man with a righteous heart knows how to stand. Did Vetra send a bodyguard? She’s subtler than that. Jaal’s narrowed universe eyes prove his suspicion but it’s flat, typical of many Angara. He doesn’t trust this place and Reyes just happens to be a part of it. </p><p> “Glad you could make time.” Ryder says, and how he missed the way he speaks. Clear, annunciated, confident. </p><p>Reyes smiles, “For you? Of course.”</p><p>“This is Jaal, our Angaran crewmember who works for the Resistance.” The Pathfinder introduces the Angara, stepping to the side so Jaal can come forward, his rofjinn thick and purpleish in the red light. He has sturdy armor on, the dark panels blending with the shadows of the room. With a distinct coldness, Jaal greets, “Hello.” His accent proves his home different than Keema’s. </p><p>“Hello, I’m Reyes, Ryder’s informant here on Kadara.” </p><p>Jaal processes a moment then says, “Yes… you are Shena.” It’s not a question. </p><p>“Yes.” Reyes agrees. </p><p>“You have done the Resistance good work. Evfra speaks well of you.” Jaal’s face opens and he puts out a hand, willing to make proper greeting. Reyes stands, takes it and feels the buzz of electricity, spirit power, spark up his arm. “Stars and skies have lit your way. Thank you for your efforts.” He has a nice way of saying the words and each one is carefully chosen. </p><p>“No thanks necessary.” Reyes holds up a hand, and sits back down. One for one on Ryder’s crew for his trustworthiness. Excitement thrills up his back, the odds aren’t terrible yet. He had wanted to get Ryder alone again, separated from his teammates but Jaal’s warmth is not an unwelcome turn of events. He offers them a seat which Jaal takes the one to Reyes’ left and Ryder glances to the seat open on the couch but instead pulls another armed chair forward so they can all see each other well. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” Beneath the club is picking up, a clear rumble of bass leaking through the floor. </p><p>“The murder victim in the market.” Ryder finally says, everyone situated. Reyes connects the dots. The Angaran murder and Jaal’s presence. He has an unbendable loyalty to his people and their wellbeing. As does Keema. This will work in his benefit. </p><p>“Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard it’s connected to other murders.” Reyes tells them, “Five other murders to be exact and a missing persons.”</p><p>“Rumor has that it’s the Charlatan but that doesn’t really add up considering the Collective has proven to be mostly information brokering.” Ryder’s eyes are burning on his face, hot but not challenging. Questioning, definitely, but between the two of them, Reyes’ has the upper hand. He’s made his first impression and it’s been good. </p><p>But he can’t overly deny the Charlatan’s involvement. To imply his importance in the chain of command will give him too much power and his façade of a friendly lower chain informant will crack. If he has no information though he won’t have anything to offer. He rubs a careful hand down his chin, “The Charlatan is discreet, careful. These murders are more about making a statement.” He wants to say less about more. </p><p>“To who?” Jaal demands. “These are brutal assassinations!” His passion makes for a reasonable detour from speaking too much about Collective hierarchy. </p><p>“Exactly.” Reyes agrees, “This was an Angaran port before Sloane came along and it was Angaran run. This could be the work of those against the Milky Way overtaking the port.” </p><p>“Could you mean..” Jaal murmurs, large eyes going wide. His back goes taut, and Ryder glances to him from the side of his eyes. </p><p>“Yes, I have a good suspicion this could be the work of the Roekaar bent on punishing aliens and Milky Way sympathizers. The victims who were Angaran were publicly in favor of the Milky Way.” Reyes explains, pulling forth a datapad of his research that he had promised Keema. “This is the strongest pattern I’ve found yet.” He leans forward, eyes flicking ever so briefly to Ryder’s hand running and squeezing his left shoulder as he listens. “But the Resistance doesn’t want to antagonize the Roekaar and while Evfra confirmed it is possible there are camps still fighting out on Kadara, he is against the Collective picking a war.” He hands the datapad to Jaal so he can keep Ryder’s attention. </p><p>Jaal flicks carefully through the information, quiet. Keema needs proof of the Roekaar to bring forth the issue as the Kadara Angara Representative. The Collective can back her efforts against Sloane and to Aya if Reyes can convince Ryder to provide his service… the AI. SAM’s ability far outweighs any typical omni-tool and the processing that Ryder doesn’t have to do makes the speed which the Pathfinder can piece a situation together undefeatable.</p><p>Reyes has yet himself to personally interact with Ryder’s AI partner. That integral component to the man’s skill, a trump card, a mysterious force… He has a chance to draw the shadow into the light. Reyes smiles to Ryder, “This is where we can help each other out.” He intertwines his fingers, “You can use your fancy AI to scan for evidence that my theory is correct and expose the Roekaar, clearing names.” A level of hardness flashes behind Ryder’s eyes but his expression remains neutral, so Reyes offers, “People are scared. This is your opportunity to win over more friends in Kadara Port.” He knows Ryder will not, cannot, refuse if those innocent are being threatened by danger to their lives. Ryder doesn’t know what Reyes is getting out of the situation, and he’s thinking about it. Does Reyes value the lives of those around him?</p><p>Jaal lowers the datapad, “This weaponry does speak of the Roekaar. The mutilation of our people is similar to an ancient technique of blade.” Both men look to the Angara and Reyes can see the Pathfinder has been won over. He’s a team man through and through. </p><p>He relaxes back into his seat, rubbing his first knuckle with a slow thumb, “I sound pretty integral to this plan.” Ryder raises an appraising eyebrow and Reyes’ heartbeat picks up. Every time he finds the room stuffy with the pressure for accountability, the dance of obligatory protocol going stiff and prewritten phrases passed back and forth that is so clearly Initiative becoming boring, Ryder smiles in that alluring manner, like a fox in a chicken coop. Where does it come from? His file is about as bland as any other run of the mill military boy. </p><p>“SAM is integral.” Reyes raises a finger, making the grin grow, “You’re a bonus.” He points it to Andromeda’s hero. </p><p>Ryder genuinely laughs and says, “First I’ve heard that. But I haven’t agreed to this plan..” His eyes flash, red on red, the light of the room just right, “Yet.” He grabs up the datapad to look for himself and Reyes settles in to watch Ryder fall right into his lap, “I feel pretty good about my chances.” He admits, about more than one thing. </p><p>As Reyes thought, Ryder is unable to stay complacent about a crime he has the power to solve. He has an inkling that Ryder was going to take on the case of murders no matter what. Having equally important Pathfinder business in the badlands, he accepts the nav point for processing a crime scene in a safe house for Zear which hasn’t been searched yet. Reyes is included on a private line of communications but Ryder refuses a drink even for the road. “I’m driving.” Is his excuse. </p><p>The Warden clears Ryder’s name, his Nomad and his teammates, Drack and Jaal for passage into the exile’s exiled land. Where the secrets are as dangerous as the corrosive streams and lakes waiting to catch fire at the gust of one overly warm wind. The news of the Pathfinder’s vulnerability is as quick as a flame to a dry prairie, and just as dangerous to those looking to benefit from it. Banished pirates and scavengers hear of prize credits for the Pathfinder, dead or alive. Collective agents rake in signals from camps waiting to ambush the Nomad if they catch a good opportunity. But they aren’t ignorant. A chance is only as good as the eye that sees it. They know of Ryder’s teams’ skills and if they want to hunt another day, they’re better off carefully approaching the bounty. </p><p>Reyes watches from his small room near the Tartarus, listening to Drack and Ryder banter back and forth about who’s driving this time. Jaal peacefully ropes prayer beads in the backseat, preparing to grieve for the Angara lost to the Port’s chaos. He and Keema would find much to talk about. </p><p>The Nomad travels the badlands swiftly, heavy, ridged tires crawling and climbing the ashy and chalky boulders with ease. High mountains and jagged, stabbing arches of rock litter the skyline, trapping the color against their grey points. Much of the grass is low and dense, thick with a protective layer to keep the rain from burning their leaves which crackle underfoot when stepped on. Toxic frogs and chirping hard shell creatures crow to the clear sky, not a cloud visible to indicate rain. </p><p>The buildings by Reyes’ nav point are a couple of carefully constructed mountain side safe houses situated above the ground so not to sit in the acidic pools of water on rainy days. The radio signal antenna is still spinning, a grim reminder of there once being life here or of Reyes’ mistake. Drack had won the argument and Ryder steps out of the passenger side, stretching. He pauses, looks over his shoulder to the second safe house settled further on the slightly angled mountain side. But he approaches the Krogan’s, opening comms to Reyes who has been waiting. </p><p>“Reyes,” A million audio files flash through his brain, Ryder’s breath, his laughter, his dry remarks, and now it’s his name, “I’m at the crime scene.” The door is locked, windows tinted for protection and for privacy. He knocks briefly on the door but there’s no answer. </p><p>“I’ve got intel for this missing victim: Krogan, male, named Zear. Works as a heavy for Kian at Tartarus.” </p><p>“The bartender.” Ryder acknowledges. Getting to know our humble little family, Ryder? </p><p>SAM’s voice chimes in, “Pathfinder. It appears there are footprints of multiple Angara leading in and out of this safe house. There are three different prints and the door has been pried open once. The closing mechanic returned it to its locked state.” </p><p>“Alright, sounds like we’ll have to let ourselves in.” Ryder says, and Drack sighs in the background, “Not one of my clan members but heard he’s got a mom at home waiting on him. Really too bad to lose good Krogan like this…”</p><p>Jaal is sympathetically quiet, and while Ryder hacks open the door, breaking the defenses down, SAM speaks up again, “Pathfinder, it seems Vehn Terev’s transponder is in the area.” </p><p>Slightly distracted, Ryder’s voice drops low, “Like I thought…” The door clicks, and he raises his head, “Ready yourselves. I don’t think there are any attackers left, but can’t be too sure.” The unlocking of his gun clicks nicely in Reyes’ ear. Vehn Terev… collecting a transponder is the Pathfinder’s important business. Door swishing open, Drack and Ryder swing their guns around a dark, unlit room shrouded in silence. “All clear.” The Krogan grunts, “And here’s Zear..” </p><p>Ryder kneels down next to the fallen Krogan, his blood dried about his heavy head in a violent pattern, splatters reaching far across the floor and color dense with his loss. Gruesomely his soulless form speaks to them of his last moments and the ambush that stole him away. “His frontal plate was pried off..” Ryder examines him, an edge of disturbance and anger making the words sharp, “Before he was shot to death. But not before they stabbed him a few times, and cut his throat..” </p><p>“They’ve done their research on how to hit a Krogan hard.” Drack mutters, disgusted, his heavy steps echoing further into the room. Ryder touches the blood, feeling it between his fingers. Then he scans the body, confirming the jagged edge of the torn flesh to be that of the same knife. </p><p>“They wanted him to suffer..” Ryder breathes in and out, emotions potent. He empathizes naturally, the pain, loss, the way he grieves for those he does not know, he does not avoid these harsh feelings. “We will need to return him to his kin.” He rises, scans the room, finds a spot of blood dried on the desk corner. “Angaran blood. Fits your Roekaar theory, Reyes.” He informs his agent who honestly… could get used to Ryder working alongside him on missions, if just to hear the way the man reports to him. </p><p>“We will need hard evidence. Outcast hire Angara as well.” Reyes says and Ryder turns back towards the main room where the terminal is, and a small kitchen. He looks across the Krogan’s personal effects but nothing is out of place except for what’s been damaged in the scuffle before the murder. It took three Angara to kill one unsuspecting Krogan distracted by meal preparation… He scans across the kitchen supplies, a meal half cooked, food on the ground. “Nothing yet..” </p><p>Reyes’ heart thumps loudly against his chest, his own personal Pathfinder if just for the time being. </p><p>“I think I’ve found something.” Ryder finally says, reaching around an awkwardly bent corner of a smashed locker, the unmovable object to someone’s clearly stoppable force. He yanks hard and pulls free a knife, the metal scraping loudly with the force needed. </p><p>Jaal comes forward, thoughtful and taking Ryder’s wrist, turns the knife over and closer to himself, “Shelesh.” He murmurs. The inscription is in the Angaran trade language, “’A home filled with strangers becomes a prison.’ These are Akksul’s words..” The culprits of the murders clear and the proof indicative of their physical presence to seal any argument against their crimes, Reyes knows Keema will take a strong and imploring case before Sloane and the council of Aya. The Roekaar’s brutality towards all aliens leaves the veins cold with the foreboding awareness they are unwelcome. </p><p>“So the Roekaar camps are further than just Aya…” Ryder concludes, and Jaal agrees, “They will be anywhere they believe aliens should not. The badlands used to be a training ground for young Angara to learn of nature and how to read the stars. When the Kett came… it became a battle ground… a graveyard… a place to incite old spirits to find the will to continue to fight. The Roekaar here will find Milky Way sympathizers walking the grounds where Angara have lost so much without thought to be disrespectful.” </p><p>“Do you think Terev was communicating with the Roekaar?” </p><p>“He is a traitor. But I’m sure he made contact. It could be why they found this safe house… to look for what we were looking for. The transponder.” </p><p>What is this transponder? Reyes listens silently. </p><p>Drack grunts, lifting the younger Krogan and balancing him on one large shoulder and arm. “Got Zear. Let’s call the Tempest. I’ll jump on a shuttle out from the Port and take the boy home. His mother should hear from her own.” </p><p>While they converge, waiting on the Tempest for a pick up, Ryder talks to Reyes, leaning against the outside of the Nomad. “So if we pass the knife onto you, your contact with the Resistance will share the news?” </p><p>“Yes, she will be grateful for uncovering the truth. Whether Sloane will heed her words is.. improbable but either way the Resistance and Aya will find solace knowing.” They’re both aware of the political chain, a cultural pyramid of communication that feeds the proper information to each level; they cannot break out of if they want to provide news.  </p><p>Jaal calls Ryder’s name, the oncoming sound waves of an approaching ship rippling against the communications. It begins to make static and Ryder tells Reyes he’s signing off and will meet him back in the Port. The line goes quiet. Reyes slowly pulls his ear piece out.  </p><p>Knight messages him later in the evening, her words curt as usual but somehow frenzied. &gt;Pathfinder is on Kadara. Virus incomplete. Going stealth mode.&lt;</p><p>He assumes she will not mind he acknowledges her message by politely deleting their conversations and archiving any other communication they’ve had up to the present. He will feign ignorance if her group is found by the Pathfinder team but that would be a pity. He hopes her stealth mode is advanced enough to prevent SAM from uncovering their operation. It would massively cripple his mission of infiltration but diversion has always been a skill set of his. </p><p>Ryder returning to the Slums has word running like a sonic boom. He’s returned from the land of fire and bullets without a scratch! Is it luck or does this guy really that good? There’s confusion, awe and some shrugging. Plenty come back from the badlands no worse for wear. </p><p>He sends Reyes a message, &gt;Meet me at Kralla’s Song.&lt;</p><p>Out in the open, where the roaming eyes can see. But the night is a good fog and alcohol an even better one. </p><p>Ryder’s late, but not in a hurry. The crowd in the bar is drunk enough they have eyes only for what’s in front of them and the noise keeps Reyes’ company while he waits as well as a neat whiskey for conversation. He feels the energy thrumming through him, waiting. When the Pathfinder walks in, the whiskey runs through his stomach and settles even lower. His grip on his cup tightens. Drinking has always been a pastime but now it’s become exciting again, a taste to fuel other needs. </p><p>“Ryder.” Reyes calls him, catches his attention just as he had back when they were just becoming acquainted. The warm familiarity feels good on his face, like sun on a summer’s afternoon. Ryder slips into the chair saved for him and says, “Crowded tonight.” Casual conversation which sounds like awful pleasantry and a waste of time coming from anyone else from Kadara but the way his eyes glisten, too full of life and charming vitality brings forth a very young and entertained part of Reyes. </p><p>“Kadara’s sport.” Reyes comments, earning a chuckle and Ryder lifts a sheathed knife to the table, catching the smuggler’s attention, “It’s a little early for the knife game, but if you bet a shot, I won’t refuse.” He likes the way Ryder’s eyes flash; he can see the minute expressions that keep him human, show his thoughts, his feelings now. He likes the slight narrowing, the bunching of dark eyelashes at the corners of Ryder’s eyes when he hears something just right. But he smiles, smoothing his features, “You know that’s not what this is.”</p><p>Reyes draws the knife closer, giving it a brief once over but not staring too long. He’ll get his chance before he hands it off to Keema. “I’ll deliver it promptly.” He slides it into a boot compartment, vanishing it from plain sight. “Now with business out of the way, you look like you could use a little sport yourself.” </p><p>“Is this a genuine offer to buy me a drink?” Ryder folds his arms on the table, staring him down, a playful touch at the corner of his lips. Has the lighting gotten better in here or does he look just right beneath the neon and the mellowed bulbs? For a man so serious, he is so easy going, so fluid. (But Reyes knew this. He’s known for a long time now. Maybe he’s getting a little attached.)</p><p>“Have I been anything less than genuine?” </p><p>“You’ve been a genuine help.” Ryder grants him but he’s outwitted the elusion with polite flattery. And to Reyes’ benefit and mild surprise, he is pleased with the words as well as their purpose. Across the bar, a familiar call steals the Pathfinder’s attention, Liam trotting up in his blue and white uniform and halfcocked grin. </p><p>“Yo, Ryder, Drack just took off. Wanted to let you know we can continue the mission without him. Elaaden will probably keep him a few extra days. Or moon cycles, or whatever they track time with out there.” He flips around a stray chair and sits in it backwards, eyes looking between Reyes and Ryder with an innocent, sociable glow. “Who’s your friend?” The word is more assertive, potent with budding prospects, than Liam realizes; he’s associating them, making their togetherness normal. He’s normalizing the shadow and Reyes’ smile grows minutely. </p><p>“Reyes Vidal, Collective informant.” He offers Liam a hand which pleases him, a man looking to build connection and unity across the universe. His grip is strong, and he returns the greeting, “Liam Kosta, crisis specialist and practicing cultural mediator.” He looks Reyes up and down but these eyes don’t catch fire underneath the skin; he’s merely looking. “Oh!” It comes to him, “You’re the guy all about the murders. Fine job; I’m looking forward to getting out there and kicking some Roekaar butt!” He pounds his fists together and then glances at the bar which has an open spot for him to squeeze in. </p><p>Turning to Ryder, Liam jumps up, “What’re you having? Same as me? Alright. I’ll be back. Hear they’ve got new things on the menu…” His voice fades into the rumble of voices and noise as well as the faint sound of music coming through from speakers above head. </p><p>“I hope he does not choose the Angaran wine.” Reyes says, watching Ryder’s teammate and friend talking animatedly with Umi whose face is just out of his line of sight. </p><p>Ryder smiles knowingly, “It does tend to make some people weepy.” They make eye contact again and how he likes the chase, “The mighty Pathfinder?” He asks, seeing Liam juggling in his hands three glasses. One even for his new Collective ‘friend.’ </p><p>“Haven’t been reduced to tears yet,” Ryder says, but the honest way he sucks his teeth, thinking of a memory behind his eyes, makes Reyes want to dig more, “But there’s always the possibility.” Reyes wants to hear his stories, of the times he hasn’t been reduced to tears, and the times he enjoyed experiences that are far from Reyes’ ability to even craft his first notions. His desires and intentions meld and he glances into his whiskey but it’s hardly touched. </p><p>“Okay!” Liam slides all the glasses onto the table precariously, flashing Ryder a thankful grin when he catches one tipping. “Let’s get this party started.” He drops down into his chair, the purplelish swirling wine catching both Ryder and Reyes’ attentions. They glance into it and to each other. </p><p>“I brought cards, so we can play, talk.” Liam tosses the worn, but beloved deck of cards in a faded cardboard box onto the table. “Who wants to deal?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Mine Part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Reyes offers his help with the Roekaar faction.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the support! I've got so much I'd like to include plot wise although I'm not confident I can write it well... I'm going to try anyways so wish me luck! Haha! </p>
<p>In this chapter, flashbacks are in italics and there are some Shelesh words I've included:<br/>olaon- younger sibling<br/>paara- to learn<br/>skkut- a general expletive (shit) <br/>tehet- Kett <br/>yalaon- older sibling</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Head thumping faintly, cool air rolling over exposed shoulder blades, Reyes swims up out of sleep and breaks the surface back into reality. There’s light he doesn’t recognize and sheets foreign to his touch below him and about his hips and legs. Darkness doesn’t greet him but a freckled back does, and a place he vaguely recalls from last night. He knows this back… from a lens out in the rolling desert hills of sand. A fresh kiss mark speaks to his memories. It’s his and gently he touches the red spot, claiming it once more, Ryder’s even breathing continuing uninterrupted, deep asleep.</p>
<p>Last night comes floating up from the back of his mind as bubbles in a fizzy drink. Piece by piece. Cards scattered on the table, Liam’s heartfelt laughter and Ryder’s smile, smearing prettily in the warmed lights. Wine thick thoughts and words… Is that Keema? He scrunches his nose, squeezing his eyes, trying to remember. Keema was there?  </p>
<p>Slivers of their conversations come back bit by bit. <em>Liam laughing and saying, “Ryder can never beat Gil,” Leaning towards Reyes, “Our chief engineer,” Leans back into his seat, “at poker. Guy’s a monster!” The background blurs nicely, all faded and unnecessary, the whole world at their table. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Ryder, folding his hand and lifting his drink, challenges, “Have you ever?” He looks perfectly warm, cheeks taking color and expression loosening up in that charming influenced manner. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You deflecting?” They burst into laughter, Liam pointing a thumb to Reyes who has played a great hand, letting the others drink for penalty graciously, “He’s about as good as Reyes over here! C’mon man, we’re gunna be hitting round three before you even finish your first!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s not my fault you play by the rules.” Reyes finally reveals a hidden card from his sleeve, slipping it to the table top by a finger. He revels in the shocked, speechless stare he earns from Liam and the surprised grin Ryder keeps, running a hand up through his hair, “Damn.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Do you think-?” Liam whips to Ryder, Gil’s game going under scrutiny and Reyes laughs, “You are in Kadara, my friend. These are Kadara rules.” </em>
</p>
<p><em>“I demand a rematch!” Liam pounds the table in mock viciousness, “But first, cheating foul! Drink up, Reyes!”</em> </p>
<p>Scrubbing a hand down his face, Reyes remembers his penalty well. He looks again to Ryder’s sleeping form and leans up on an elbow to gain access to his face. Ryder has an arm pinned beneath his head and pillow, hand freely off the bed and the other loose at his side. His bare skin shows fading bruises, lingering reminders of missions and minor slip ups but his face. He’s raw in sleep; no micromanaging of the expressions, no careful consideration of the eyes, just peace. And tossled hair. Reyes sees a young man here, not a symbol of power and justice, not an emblem of a movement to be told of in sparkling words to children who down the line live in luxurious calm times, not a super soldier equipped for obedience and an iron fist against threats. Just a handsome young man. </p>
<p>He ghosts a knuckle across a warm cheek, touching the soft ridges of scars that he hasn’t asked about. Long eyelashes flutter gently, eyes moving under the blanket of sleep. They shared the night together, those ember eyes smoldering and that skin hot beneath his touch. Ryder’s body temperature… it was a pleasant thing to lay against in the dark… Hot hands, bare fingers, and a heartbeat beneath his lips at the throat… trusting him… </p>
<p>
  <em>”You have a fine ship, Ryder.” Reyes smiles from the wall, snagging one belt loop expertly as Ryder follows him inside his private quarters, lights dim with the late hour. Quietly the door shuts, locks… Their bodies meld together, hands coming up beside Reyes’ head to steady himself, “It’s the Pathfinder’s ship.” Gaze leads desire, and Reyes kisses ready lips, his own hands gliding down and grabbing a firm cheek in each palm. Breath against him, sweet from wine and eyelashes lower for another kiss as Reyes reminds him softly, amused, “You are the Pathfinder.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ryder shows a subdued self-consciousness, aware he’s just exposed something private from his thoughts. He draws it in, but it resides in his eyes. Reyes knows they’re floating in that sacred space of unshielded Angaran emotional openness. He will also need to be careful… He kisses Ryder from throat, earning a hitched breath, to his chin, to his lips, promising, “Tonight you’re just Ryder to me.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ryder’s mouth on his, a thigh rising to bring their bodies closer, Reyes invites the taste of victory on a hero’s tongue. This is his hero, in the darkness and even drunk, excited, he wills himself to remember this Ryder who will find solace in him, unknowing of his identity and his shadow and the details. The Ryder who wants him, who will let him in. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They find their synchronicity again, Reyes taking the lead and pinning Ryder to the bed, surrounded by him, his scent, his room, those eyes which don’t shy even when susceptible to injury. Draws his hands up and intertwines their fingers, likes the groan Ryder makes when he puts weight down, thighs trapping him and when he’s scooped into the man’s lap so Ryder can shed him of his clothing, piece by piece he’s haunted by the intimacy. Kisses kind and pretty and effortless touch his warmed skin, bare.. he pulls Ryder’s shirt off as well, seeing the scar from a bullet in the jungles of Havarl, still dark, still aching.. he knows. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>His looking is noticed, a reserved but unashamed tension settling on Ryder’s brow. His weakness is visible by the scar, vulnerable to probing. Reyes’ fingers circle pink outer skin, the heat of Ryder’s uncovered chest and back seeping into his skin and coiling beneath. They both watch, Reyes leaning down, time slowing around them. He could leave a kiss, treat the mark as kindly as he’s been but instead he opens his jaw and bites it, sinking a lower canine in which draws a surprised but not entirely unpleasant noise from Ryder, who twitches deeply down below. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When Reyes rises up, Ryder is staring at him, flushed and eyes questioning, breath hard in his chest. He’s taken the ever composed, polite poster child of the Initiative off guard. It fills him with a hot sense of his own blood going lower and lower. And Ryder doesn’t soften at teeth either. So he bites into a kiss that puts Ryder back into the pillows, their hunger for each other raising up like a wave on a stormy ocean front. He doesn’t need to explain himself, display his humanity and its imperfections for analysis. His scars mirror Reyes’ and they can find a comfortable yin and yang to their histories. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Pants and underwear thrown away, boots laying kicked off unceremoniously at random on the floor, their groins are now free to each other’s hot touch and affection. Ryder beneath the dimmed lights and completely bare…</em> Reyes breathes in, loins stirring at just the thought of it. He drops a kiss to Ryder’s bare shoulder. </p>
<p>
  <em>Pinning Ryder down again, hand on him, holding one wrist and the other at Ryder’s shoulder with their penises touching between Ryder’s thighs. They’re rubbing, finding the friction, the pressure of the other entrancing. “Feels good..” Ryder breathes, fingers twitching to touch but Reyes keeps it pinned. The fist of potent sexual attraction and need clenches beneath their guts, deep. The buildup is as important as the peak, thunder to their lightning. He can just imagine himself between Ryder’s full cheeks, pinning him in a different way so they can find that fine line between aching and pleasure.. Ryder’s hair, messy from rolling on the bed, is brushed away from his forehead as Reyes leans into kiss him, tongues meeting. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When he’s kissed him breathless he leans down, releasing Ryder’s hand and turns his hips so he can put the leaking member into his mouth. Thighs trapped in both arms, his hand expertly finds the base of Ryder’s erection, engorged underneath his fingers. Taut flesh sits on his tongue and beneath his his fingers, honest in their captivation with him. He’s not far, and Ryder tells him, hands gripping into the pillows, polite, “Reyes-!” The final jerk sprays a healthy splatter across a freckled chest and stomach, the muscles beneath clenching and the breath stopping briefly in the tiny death. Lips open, the sweetest pinch between his brow, angelic bliss blossoms on those features that have been so restrained. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Ryder rises, eyelids lowering in the residual pleasure and buzz and he meets Reyes’ lips softly, trailing his own kiss down, for the chest and to an old scar thin from a laser in a heist gone wrong and along the sensitive lower flesh of the stomach. Then he drops his head into his lap. His hair tickles at Reyes’ skin and the pleasure of having such an important face between his legs makes him as quick as Ryder. He’s been coiled tight, the release amongst others simply muting the ache he wants satisfied. He can feel it, sharp, like a knife, and Ryder’s mouth soothes and pins him beneath it at the same time. But he doesn’t say and Ryder gets a shot up the side of his mouth and across his cheek, a second shot covering his scarred knuckles.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Hey…!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The breath catches in his chest, squeezing him so tight he goes a little lightheaded. Ryder’s face, the white splash of his pleasure against those tan cheeks and the blown pupils probably mirrors his own, the raw intensity of getting exactly what he wants likely visible on his face. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You look good like that.” Reyes murmurs pleasantly, taking Ryder by the chin so he can kiss and taste himself on rosy lips. He’ll be shameless in staking his claim, even in the face of impermanence. “You did that on purpose..” Ryder holds his hand carefully so not to drip, but the afterglow is still strong and his usual even-tempered dryness returns. Maybe give it a little humor if generous. Here in this private hour he can do no wrong. They’re fast, impatient with how heavy the longing has sat inside. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Something for future me to fantasize about.” Reyes comments, turning Ryder’s face side to side with his chin. His hand is pushed away, Ryder smiling despite himself, “Let’s clean up, unlike you, I’m all sticky.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They wash each other’s bodies in the shower, Reyes holding Ryder from the back and giving him the kiss mark as his first claim washes down the drain. Whether his name, the name he’s known by here, goes unwritten, here he is. Red on skin, a morning reminder. Something left to be remembered by, whether the feelings linger or wither. Ryder carefully washes Reyes’ hair, a sleepy, thoughtful expression coming over him and wildly, despite himself, this becomes the face Reyes feels he will keep for a future lonely night, one that can be used to soothe a younger self who thought he was unsalvageable, unredeemable.</em>
</p>
<p>The sleep had been refreshing, lacking the usual wine ridden dreams. His success and the memory of it make the morning all the more pleasant but Reyes wonders. How did they get back to the ship? He thinks, drawing faint lines across Ryder’s freckles. He won cards several more times, Liam determined to figure out how he cheated without his sleeves. Then.. they had drawn a small crowd, mostly Collective but some simply in the market. The old fashioned cards were popular and money was being offered. Ryder gave up his seat for .. Keema! Her eyes were intense on him. He gave up his seat for a Salarian and Liam found the opportunity to test some new skills on new players exciting. He clapped a friendly hand to Ryder then to Reyes saying he would meet back up later after he schooled some Kadarans at their own game. Reyes knows Liam’s a solid wingman now that he’s sober and his blessing is received with thanks. </p>
<p>Then they had made their way by themselves to the ship. The walk is blurred by shadows and light conversation between him and the Pathfinder. A kiss shared beneath the darkness of unlit buildings and an invitation he gladly had accepted. </p>
<p>“Mr. Vidal.” A pleasant voice speaks, tone decidedly neutral, breaks through his reminiscing and snaps him back to the present, “Good morning.” </p>
<p>Cautious but prepared, Reyes replies, “Good morning… SAM?” He knows the voice but better to feign ignorance than to be predetermined a threat. </p>
<p>“That’s correct. Welcome aboard the Tempest. The Pathfinder will likely sleep another twenty minutes.” </p>
<p>Interest piqued, he observes, “That’s rather exact.”</p>
<p>“Yes. When he gets proper REM sleep in a safe and secure place I update our connections and stabilize his implant as well as check the networks between my other implants. To ensure his safety, I only perform this task when he is resting so not to cause any distress to his system.” </p>
<p>As according to his instincts… Reyes files the information away and says, “I thought he was just a deep sleeper.” </p>
<p>“He is in fact a deep sleeper.” SAM informs him, “Or I should say was. He sleeps this hard so I will not bother him updating.” </p>
<p>Reyes sits up on the bed, circumspectly looking around the room as he hums, “Does Ryder dream while you update?” His eyes fall to the swirling orb of light across the room on the desk beside the stacks of datapads, the computer, a coffee mug and pieces of artifacts as well as minerals. He gives it a studious stare which brings forth SAM’s comment, “You are looking at one my portable terminals. It gives me further access to the Tempest. And to answer your question, he does.” </p>
<p>“Do you watch his dreams, SAM?”</p>
<p>“I watch everything the Pathfinder does.” He replies mildly, Reyes’ tone lost on him or merely proving him unprovoking. Challenge accepted, but Reyes’ digresses, doubling back, “So you run the networks on the ship?” He thinks of his omni-tool, feels a bit of tightening around his heart. </p>
<p>“I am the network.” SAM informs him. “But worry not, I do not access anything without stated permission or authorization from the Pathfinder.” </p>
<p>Reyes rises and collects his underwear, relieved. “Very polite of you, SAM.”</p>
<p>“The Pathfinder tells me privacy is an important component to trust.” </p>
<p>“What else does he tell you?” </p>
<p>“That my knowledge of sarcasm is still lacking.” </p>
<p>This draws a laugh from the smuggler getting dressed. He slips his boots on, and decides to explore the bedroom, first starting at the desk. The computer is password locked, the screen saver a picture of Ryder’s crew including members Reyes hasn’t met. They’re all pulled together under the light of Eos’ sun, the outpost gleaming newly fresh in the background. Liam’s arms are around Ryder’s and a young red head who has a charming lopsided way of smiling. Beside her a tall Salarian shyly looks into the camera. An Asari stands calmly at one end of the group while Peebee grins at the other end with an old fashioned peace sign. Drack and Jaal stand behind the shorter members of the crew and Cora, hands on her hips smiles hair gleaming in the sun rays. Oh, this might be Gil. Reyes leans into the picture. He’s next to Vetra, beard close cut and sharp but hair perfectly unkempt. His uniform shows a few oil spots and his eyes have a warm way of narrowing when he smiles. He’s good looking, Reyes thinks. But maybe not his type. There can only be one devil-may-care, dashing poker player. </p>
<p>He glances into the coffee mug, sees the remains of a light brown coffee, smells the sweet mixed in. Vanilla creamer? The datapads look unorganized but the shelves above prove Ryder files things away properly when finished. Boxes labeled accordingly and video cards in neat bindings. There’s a book, cover worn and a picture corner sticking out from the pages. Gently, Reyes pulls the photo free, three faces beaming up to him, a boy, a girl and a young woman kneeling with them. The children are in uniforms, pride and sun clear on their face. Freckles cover both of their noses, their clean socks and shining shoes show a careful, loving mother’s touch. The woman has her hair pulled back in a long braid, dark hair and dark, dark eyes smiling out to whoever is taking the picture. Her suit, modest and grey and her heels, look elegant and proper. She has a composed grace, the way her calf is exposed by her skirt is somehow alluring in her kneeling position and her smile, the way it reaches and crinkles her eyes reminds him of someone. This is Ryder’s mother and this must be a sister. Behind them is a school, gates open to the first day. Maybe it is Alec Ryder taking this photo. At a further page is another photo but Reyes doesn’t get a chance to look.</p>
<p>“Good morning.” Ryder says to him, and Reyes turns, carefully pushing the photo back into its place behind his back. “Didn’t expect you to still be here.” He says honestly, drowsy and pretty beneath the morning highlight of his brow and it dipping along his muscles. The hair along his arms and stomach glitters with light droplets. </p>
<p>“You think so little of me.” Reyes feigns hurt, “I told you I was a model gentleman.” He smiles from the desk, and Ryder snorts, smiling back, rubbing his eyes, “Hey, I’m not complaining.” </p>
<p>“You still look sleepy, Ryder.” Reyes slowly draws closer, and Ryder sits up, stretching. The somnolent, heavy eyed expression and his warm cheeks from sleep makes him look youthful and unguarded and as comforting as a pleasant, uneventful summer’s afternoon. “Yeah,” He yawns, running a hand down his face as if to wipe away the grogginess; it almost puts him back to sleep, “I always have trouble waking up after SAM does an update.” His honesty is welcomed and Reyes dips down, lifting Ryder’s chin with a finger, kissing him. “Want me to get you a coffee?” </p>
<p>Ryder’s smile against his lips charms him, “That does sound like a model gentleman.” </p>
<p>“I do believe I remember where the kitchen was. Don’t get up.” Reyes unlocks the door, slips out into the cool hallway, eyes smart. He finds the kitchen without too much trouble, the presence of other crew members lingering about the area. A bowl in the sink, strange choices in cereal. He’s lucky there’s a pot of coffee brewed. How very traditional. He hasn’t seen one of these pots since… </p>
<p>“Ryder, can I have a moment?” </p>
<p>His thoughts go silent and he pauses cup still in mid motion from the cabinet. Whose voice is that? He glances back over his shoulder but the person has already walked to the Pathfinder’s quarters. Slowly, quietly, he peeks a head out and looks at the back of the Asari doctor. Reyes knows her from pictures but otherwise he knows very little about her personally. She has a composed, distanced expression which he catches when she turns as the door opens and Ryder, appropriately dressed, leans on the door hinge, “Yeah, Lexi. What’s up?” </p>
<p>Quickly, so not to be discovered, Reyes flattens himself against the wall just out of sight, cup in hand. If another crew member sees him… But he can’t resist. In her voice, one can tell when she smiles, Lexi huffs fondly, “Just woken up, have you?” </p>
<p>“Guilty as charged.” </p>
<p>“Tell SAM you should be getting more sleep so the updates aren’t so heavy every time.”</p>
<p>“Tell SAM?” He echoes incredulously and she replies smartly, “I’d tell you but you never listen.” </p>
<p>Defeated, he sighs, but it’s all good natured, “I’ll tell him.”</p>
<p>“I have been informed.” SAM chimes in and they chuckle. Lexi’s voice drops and goes serious. “Ryder, this is about..” Her words trail off, “Well, you should be allowed your personal life.” She restarts, “But as someone looking out for you and your best interests, I think around people like Mr. Vidal you shouldn’t push your fear away anymore. You’re thinking with your desire. SAM subduing your fear in high risk situations with too much… inclination towards what you perceive as alluring can alter how you see the situation. We can’t afford for you to be compromised.” Her words are straight forward, an impersonal, informative perspective which can be interpreted as cold and a little heartless if there isn’t as much at stake on Ryder’s life. Or maybe that’s just how she speaks.</p>
<p>He’s quiet and Reyes wants to turn and read Ryder’s expression but he can’t take the risk. He’s heard something incredible, his mind making connections behind his waiting ears. Super soldiers, and Alec Ryder’s rumored alterations to the strength and the ability of the AI, Ryder’s attention on him and their chemistry. He wonders about her basis for his character, or if it’s merely a blanket statement for the people of Kadara…</p>
<p>The space between her words and his thoughts going thick, Ryder finally says, “It wasn’t repressed last night. I made that choice.” Reyes’ heart skips a beat and he clenches the cup, responding involuntarily. </p>
<p>Lexi’s silence is heavy. She asks, “Are you thinking about yourself or the Pathfinder position when you do that?”</p>
<p>“I’m always thinking about the Pathfinder position.” He divulges to her, his restraint clear. Emotion leaks out underneath the words, but not necessarily combative towards Lexi. She is not the basis of his conflict. Still, as he cannot be anything but level headed, he concedes, “But you’re right. I’ll be careful.” A moment, a pause, or an entirety of a lifetime where Ryder yields to the Pathfinder mask and surrenders his heart to a hero, and he says more softly and yet with more intention, “I’ll be careful.” </p>
<p>With two coffee cups and two shades of coffee, Reyes returns to the Pathfinder quarters, making sure to avoid being seen by Lexi although he does make eye contact with Liam while he is heading towards the back of the ship, likely the cargo hold, and earns a wink and two hand pistols. Two for two on Ryder’s crew. </p>
<p>Ryder has gone expectantly sober but thanks Reyes for the cup of coffee, whiskey eyes distant and pensive. He sits on the still unmade bed, kiss mark hidden beneath his sweatshirt. When he takes a sip though, those ember eyes inescapably light up, coming back to life, and he smiles, eyes crinkling, “How’d you know how I like my coffee?” </p>
<p>Reyes, leaning back on the desk, smiles with his eyes over his own cup, “Trust me to do these things right.”</p>
<p>After coffee and a brief call to Jaal who has been speaking to the local Angara to understand their perspectives on the Port, Ryder, Liam and Reyes go up into the meeting room. Jaal joins them as casual conversation picks up and he greets them, “Clear skies today. Good for hunting Roekaar.” </p>
<p>He sees Reyes and nods to him, “Shena.” His smile is coy, playful and then he looks to Liam, “Olaon, I heard you were successful in your gambles last night.” He pats him on the back, and Liam points a warning finger to him, “Don’t think I don’t know what that means. And it’s ‘gambling.’ The way you say it somehow changes how it sounds.”</p>
<p>“Maybe that is on purpose.” </p>
<p>“Well, I’ve been paara-ing Shelesh too, so I can purposefully say skkut,” He fist pumps slow and deliberately, “I won six hundred credits.” He flashes the group a six with his hands followed by two zeros. Jaal lets out a laugh, “Why must you learn the dirty words first? It is meant for bad times.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, my ‘bad’ ass skill. You’ll be calling me yalaon soon.” </p>
<p>Jaal chuckles, greatly amused and says, “You are, as you say, ‘paara-ing’ fast. I will drink to such a thing happening.” He sits down, eyes narrowing, “If you can prove yourself.”</p>
<p>Liam drops down into the seat next to him, resting his ankle atop his knee casually, “We can do some, as <em>you</em> say, ‘gambles’ today then. Roekaar defeated.” He announces, “Higher number wins. Loser buys drinks.”</p>
<p>Jaal processes the bet. Reyes watches from his own seat across the circular meeting room, eyes seeing all from around Ryder’s focused form working the virtual map display in the center of the room. He hasn’t heard of let alone witnessed the Resistance soldier in Tartarus or Kralla’s Song and thinks maybe this place is conflicting and painful for the Angara to be in. The slaughtered remains of a great culture on Kadara sits beneath the brutality of the new Port. Hardly an Angara who still speaks with the sharp and angled words that used to fill the Port remains, ballads and spices melting away beneath blood and acid. Watching drug overlords flood the streets with poison, drunk pirates vomit and piss and Angara grasping to survive against poor odds does not inspire hope or friendliness. </p>
<p>But Jaal smiles to Liam. He must have heard good things of his friend through his cousins and planet far sisters and brothers. Angara who find him a hopeful, glittering star new to their skies who appreciates their ways, wants to embrace their hands and share their culture. Liam who talks of a new home, a place for all to never feel as an outsider. He has a reputation growing. Reyes has heard. Ah, he realizes, then that is why Keema came to play cards. </p>
<p>“You have a deal. I would like to play your card game as well.” Jaal puts out a hand to seal it officially and Liam grins, “Don’t think I’ll let you win just because you’re a beginner.”  </p>
<p>“Alright.” Ryder catches everyone’s attention, the screen showing a virtual layout of Kadara, angled for the badlands with points the Pathfinder team has expertly screened themselves. Reyes slowly rubs his chin in thought; SAM can map things easily, create models… see through doors… access networks… Ryder’s talking returns him to the situation, “We have several areas close enough to the Port,” Is this how the Pathfinder looks to his team? Valiant, tall… you can believe him if he says it, believe anything, “Where the mountain ranges are apt for safe houses or dens that the Roekaar could be using.” The blue light of the map sits on his cheek bones and forehead, streaking his hair, an aesthetic picture for the leadership of the Initiative’s only success. He could be a painting in a history book right here and behind him would be sitting…</p>
<p>“I know many of the caves.” Reyes speaks up, standing. They have three points on the map, one being the small mountainside valley the Firefighters are currently residing in. Better to keep the attention as far from there as possible… And the other, “This is a manmade cave in the mountain used by Sloane when she first started fighting the Kett. Nothing more than scavengers reside there now.. It’s used for ambush on the road.” Ryder’s eyes are on him, gleaming in a fascinating blue gold, “But this spot.” He points to the one further inside the mountain range, in a coveted indent, “This is an old mining cave. It has been inaccessible without the Angaran codes but I believe I know someone who can find the password.” </p>
<p>Jaal stands, looking into the blue model with his gleaming, ever swirling universes, “I see.” The words are an acknowledgment of more than simply Reyes’ observations. His vision encompasses further, past the concept of missions and palatable ideas of victory; there is a people behind his thoughts, a people who are honorable and loyal to one another, who are fighting to keep an identity, a place in this universe that was once so completely theirs. What does he feel killing his own? Reyes can’t relate, eyes boring into the face of dignity personified, he’s killed plenty of his kind without remorse. </p>
<p>“We can ask that of you, Shena?” Jaal confirms, and Reyes puts a hand out, “Of course. Think of it as a favor to ensure the safety of Kadara Port.” Among other things. When he turns Ryder is looking at him and he can almost see a good man in the reflection. </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>The Port is noisy around him, a familiar roar of shouting, engines rumbling and construction that has become his background in the last year. He’s known, easily integrated into many places in their sounds and their ideas and how to break them down and put them back together for his convenience. Moral greyness is only attainable for those who have an understanding of how easily they can be someone’s moral black and if you’ve gotten that far, you better be able to paint someone black as well. Sacrifice is a given when there’s not enough to share and the brittle hunger in voices on the Port strikes one as opportunity with those who find their choices slimming fast. If fear hits it’s in adrenaline, the terror of evil in the universe and the damning of his soul given up for guile and bread. Things seemingly clear cut are bought with money and paid for beneath the surface. So what is Ryder? </p>
<p>He flips up a cigarette from his pocket that he snagged from Ryder’s desk drawer. Lights it, breathes in a nostalgic burn. Everything he’s wanted, in his hands. A kingdom beneath the ground, crawling through every line and under every cloud, the ego of being the guilty pleasure, the person he’s not supposed to want but can’t stop himself, to the pure and decent Pathfinder who cannot be led astray except for… Reyes acknowledges the cigarette between his fingers. He’ll be Ryder’s nicotine. Everyone needs a crutch. And now he’s gotten his own fix. </p>
<p>Flicking the cigarette, Ryder’s an ideal. Reyes Vidal isn’t the only one using the Pathfinder for a better tomorrow. He can want the man beneath the helmet and benefit from the moral binding that chains the Pathfinder to the path of righteousness, whether there is clarity on it or not. The concept of order is particularly uncomplicated for those in power and maybe that’s a part of what draws him to Ryder, besides the physical. He’s as much a victim to his title as it gives him a hand to twist fate. They’ll shower in his victories, celebrate his fortunes but wounded Ryder who bears the injury not only to his character but to his body is kept behind closed doors. His power is equally a curse that covers his hands with blood. He can’t be innocent of violence and now Reyes knows he’s pushing away the fear, the anxiety for performance. Does Ryder find the ferocity of need horrifying? Or does he find himself overwhelming as he becomes a beacon of unity as well as conformity, his influence growing too big for one young man? Does he fear hunger at its bleakest?</p>
<p> Or is it that he can’t bear to feel the brunt of loss, his heart creaking under the weight of failure, of weakness in his person when he can’t give what’s promised? (Even when he wasn’t the one who promised it.) His body is honest, and his heart is young. He didn’t sign up to be the Pathfinder, and he didn’t sign up for the whole universe to fall into hell. But Reyes welcomes him into it. The playing field welcomes him as well and right now, if just for now, he has the Pathfinder in his pocket. A knight to claim a crown amongst fire Reyes has known longer than Andromeda. </p>
<p>Keema picks up, interested, when he calls. “You have been off the grid.” She says knowingly. </p>
<p>“I’ve been delightfully busy.” He confesses, the buzz crisp, “I have a favor to ask.”</p>
<p>“Before you give me any details? You really <em>are</em> busy. I was expecting you to at least make time to gloat.” </p>
<p>“I always make time for that. I merely have a deadline today. I need to speak to the Angara who designed the pipelines for the Port.” </p>
<p>“I can arrange that for you. She may not be hospitable towards you once she sees you though. She does not trust Milky Way aliens having lost her city and her brothers to the Kett and then Sloane.” </p>
<p>“That is alright. I work well with hostility.”</p>
<p>“I will send you her navpoint. Treat her with respect, she is much older than you.” </p>
<p>“Naturally. By the way, did you let Liam win last night?”</p>
<p>A second of silence. Her voice is sharper, calculated, even electric, “No. He was surprisingly quick witted. With how much laughter he inspires, he gives nothing away. And the way he speaks Shelesh! He told a fascinating story about the sages, must be why he uses such old language. Promised some fresh Havarl tobacco. Other Angara are demanding a seat with him.” So he has Keema’s approval. “You played with him, no?”</p>
<p>“Casually.” Reyes admits, realizing now Liam spoke of Ryder’s inability to win Gil at cards but not his own. The type to earn respect by action. “Thanks for the navpoint.” </p>
<p>Doshi Ge’s home is beneath the city but above the slums, hidden within the code protected layers of secret doors and walls that don’t look passable. Being a private Angara, Doshi Ge does not frequent the alien infested port which once held her designs in high esteem and glittered gold under the sun. Instead her communication is calling Angara down into her tunnels to smoke sweet grasses she grows from the drainage she cycles acid and impurities from. As if all the time spent beneath the earth has faded her color, she is a faint blue, white at places other Angara are purple but her eyes are dark, a universe basked in a black hole. To tell those not as accustomed to the darkness, she dons a jingling headband, alerting those who bring no light that she draws near. Her sentences are chopped and brief, preferring her natural tongue. </p>
<p>Reyes invites himself through several doors, knowing now by skill and practice how to unlock and hack simple defenses. The air clears and becomes cool, old tapestries telling stories of past life Angara pinned to the walls as well as painted hand prints to remind those of who was here before. She has been contacted by Keema and waits for him, sitting on the floor on a pillow before a steaming coil of sand recently lit in a giant ribbed bowl. The smoke fills the chamber, her form half hidden by the coiling clouds that smell faintly of Indian rose and agarwood. </p>
<p>“So you come.” She speaks when the door closes, “Keema tells me of you.”</p>
<p>“Hello, Doshi Ge. I’ve come to make a request of you.” He follows her lead and sits on the opposite pillow of the sand bowl, and across the smoke and cindering grains turning red and then black, her eyes gleam open, “And I brought you an offering.” The bottle of wine is passed over the sand bowl. </p>
<p>“Have you not enough of Kadara?” There’s no aggression in her question and his wine is accepted with a blessing to the skies. Luckily she does not expect him to actually answer.</p>
<p>“It is about the Roekaar.” He tells her mildly, determined to keep his handle on their conversation as much as possible.  </p>
<p>“They make war on their own.” She nods slowly, putting the wine down beside her. “They speak of betrayal. And of new, terrible aliens walking our earth. But,” She pauses, cocking her head slightly at him, “You are not so newly terrible.” </p>
<p>“They have murdered those at the Port. We would like to put a stop to them.” </p>
<p>“Suddenly you have found murder to be inexcusable, hm? Keema may trust you, but I see no reason to believe you and your crafty smiles.” Weightless as a cloud, Doshi Ge rises, hands floating on the sand smoke, riding it like waves. “I can hear the reverberations from above,” Graceful arms raise to draw invisible lines across all of the pipes of the city touched by those very hands, “There are those who speak of the evils unlike the blind devastation of tehet, but about the greed of young, fragile humans and how other aliens who bring strength and years fall in line with them… How they disrespect our culture, find fault in our ways, treat us as weak…” </p>
<p>Reyes stays quiet. He glances into his omni-tool, her far seeing eyes submerged in memories, emotions. He’s running low on time. He still needs to get his bike out, collect his necessities in case of confrontation and ride out to the meeting place with the Pathfinder team. If he’s even successful here.</p>
<p>“You believe I should give up my own kind?” Her direct question to him snaps him back. </p>
<p>“Rather than put so much weight on yourself, I merely need the code for the old mine shaft door in Draullir. It’s not about giving up your kind or not, just access to an old cave.” He explains, hands carefully cutting through smoke. </p>
<p>Her cold disapproval teeters on disgust, “Like I said. You are crafty. The Roekaar have mighty hearts even if they are clouded with hatred. You will go to confront them? Take out young soldiers?”</p>
<p>“Keema asked me to. She is grieving those murdered here at the Port.”</p>
<p>Expression smoothing at the mention of their shared contact, Doshi Ge falls silent. She considers him, and likely her relations with her close friend and above ground connection to their other worlds. “Keema asked you?” She echoes slowly then questions, “To avenge the Angara killed?” </p>
<p>He’s late. But he’s close. “Yes, she wants Kadara Port to prosper again.” </p>
<p>Gently, the smoke barely moving around her, Doshi Ge sits again, calm once more. She is years past him in age and her emotions flow through her differently. She endures time, pain on another level. “Then I will respect her wishes for this. You may have the passcode for the door. I remember of the times when the mines were a place of comfort and prosperity. Now they have been bled dry by time and clutching hands. The password is ‘gestiir.’ You will need to write it with your hand. The door responds not to bomb nor to device. It is built through ancient knowledge.” Across the hottest smoke her hands appear, waiting to take his and show him how to draw the symbols. </p>
<p>Reyes has no more time to lose so he pulls off his gloves, enduring the whispering hot tendrils of white against the back of his hands. Her touch ghosts his palm, a circle, round, and then within it are several zigzags and four smooth dips beneath. Squeezing the symbols into his palm to remember, Reyes smiles, “Thank you Doshi Ge.”</p>
<p>“Tell Keema to visit. She does not smile so teasingly.” </p>
<p>He excuses himself, the scent of her dark room clinging to him. Trailing phantoms of her fingers tingle on his skin and he slips his gloves back on, confident in his muscle memory. Fashionably late as usual, Vidal. </p>
<p>A Collective storage unit hidden well near the Tartarus provides him with the tools and fuses usually processed and detonated by the muscle or the collectors. He grabs several grenade sized, detonator trigger bombs as well as an extra rifle and pistol because one can never be over prepared. While he straps these in, gliding the gun into an extra pocket near his thigh, he throws the rifle across his back. Their meeting time has come and gone, but Ryder and his teammates can handle themselves. So he requests his bike, slips out past the Warden who is picking his teeth from an early dinner and jumps on to ride. </p>
<p>Evening sits on his shoulders. Kadara bleeds pale to the sun, and roaming animals waking from their late afternoon naps away from the burning light of the hottest part of the day snarl at the sound of his engine passing by. Still stiff from sleep, they don’t take chase much to his luck, only the warmed wind wrapping loose arms about him as he speeds through the rocky hills. If he’s not careful, even just a touch too obvious, he’ll get sniped and be absolutely no help at all. But the hills are empty and he finds the mountain range of Draullir without any intervention. The incline is steep, giving the impression of there being nothing at all between the high climbing walls of rock but at just the right angles, one can see the dip and the fold which keeps things like secrets safe.  </p>
<p>At the bottom of the closest hill, just below visual range of where the entrance to the mine would be, the Nomad is parked, dark and alone. Pulling alongside it, Reyes pulls off his helmet, looks into the tinted windows and kicks his bike stand out. They’ve already gone inside. But they don’t have the code… </p>
<p>He pockets the bike activation card, smooths back his hair and begins up the hill, easily edging on suspicious. SAM might have the ability to unlock the door, although Doshi Ge said it was impossible for electronic signals to hack through the ancient technology. But Ryder being away from the Nomad otherwise speaks to.. The door to the first entrance is open, left wide. A railing for the lifted porch after the ramp is bent out of place. Walking slowly, carefully up the creaking slope, Reyes sees the reason for the door being open; it’s been bent, crookedly half closed as if hit with something hard right in the middle. He touches the strained metal, then color catches his eye. Blood, just a few drops angled harshly on the floor. Something’s happened. </p>
<p>There are no lights on inside, but the day still has enough to give him ample perspective of the small sitting room. Old furniture pockets in the floor where things used to sit are the only remainders, either junkers or scavengers having picked it apart or time having done its damage. He sees the door, sealed with the old passcode block. It’s black, gleaming a sun beam off its surface. With only nature’s chirping and rustling, the quiet becomes a knife. It can cut him if he’s not careful. Soundlessly, he approaches the door. Draws a circle, the zigzag, tall in the middle and four swoops. Each drawing he does correctly lights up, becoming a glowing green. The door hisses, cold air rustling his hair and then it glides open, a dark, mountain tunnel leading down. Voices are carrying up from beneath, hallowed by the distance. </p>
<p>Quickly he steps inside, the door cutting the light. The tunnel breaks into two pathways, one that forms stairs and the other that has old tracks, likely for carts bringing up minerals from the depths. He slips down the path without stairs, careful not to trip, or make too much noise. At first there’s nothing, just the downward slope slowly levelling until flat and his breathing. But soon he sees the archway and light of an exit, several large crates blocking half his view. The mine is larger than he first expected, the ceilings high and echoing with angry words. </p>
<p>A footstep crunches gravel close to Reyes and his blood runs cold, freezing him in his crouch. An armored Angara, helmet removed walks by, gun in hand. His head is visible above the crates, but the focused glaze of his eyes shows he’s listening not for intruders but to who is talking. Luckily the boxes of ammunition, guns and grenades as well as armor plates keeps them apart or he might have sensed another party in their midst. Quietly Reyes slips out from the coverage of the shadows, to the corner of the last crate, peeking to look. Small victories, but he was right about this being the hideout for the Roekaar faction on Kadara. </p>
<p>Twenty or so of them stand about, alert, guns in hands and sneering faces. Some sit beneath the coverage of tented beast skin, cigars between their fingers. Several stand a little close for comfort, their murmurings easily blocked out as Reyes finally lays eyes on what has everyone’s attention in the middle of the chamber which makes the sweat feel cold on his back.</p>
<p>Team Pathfinder, on their knees, arms bound behind their backs. There’s a gun pressed to the back of Liam’s head, his resentment tight between his dark brows and clear along the line of his lips, which has a bloodied split. He’s keeping quiet, letting Jaal make efforts to reason with those of his kind. Ryder’s between the two, arms lifted awkwardly behind his back in the cuffs, an Angaran hand holding him with a gun aimed at the base of his skull. There’s a slight tremor along his whole body, the strain of the position quickly taking a toll. They know about his implant. A streak of blood has smeared under his nose and his cheek like the mark of a backhand. Jaal’s straight shoulders prove a sense of composure, although he sounds winded. A barrel is aimed to his temple. </p>
<p>“I am an Angara as you.” </p>
<p>There is a female Angara standing judgment before them, her uniform dark and her hostility palpable. Revulsion plain, she curses him, spitting the ground, “You eat with them, travel with them, <em>smell</em> of them. You’re as disgusting as all the other traitors who taint themselves with the scum invading our universe.” </p>
<p>“We can work this out-“ Ryder begins and gets a swift clack on the skull with the butt of the rifle, jerking his head forward and giving Reyes’ stomach a strange, curdling flip. The soldier returns his gun to position, Liam ripping at his cuffs in a jerk reaction at the brutality towards his leader. “Hey!” He snaps, earning one for himself which has his Angaran guard grabbing his arm to hold him up and return him to the desired spot. Blood specks the ground.  </p>
<p>“I don’t think I invited the outsiders to speak. I, Farah, will protect my home, and I will protect the Port from invaders and sympathizers. None of you are innocent. You will bleed, and I will go down in Angaran history as the one who killed the Pathfinder.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Mine Part 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When things take a wrong turn, there's nothing a few explosions won't fix.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the support! I hope this chapter finds you all well!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pistol in one hand, detonator in the other, Reyes smooths his brow. He’s developed enough natural instinct that there’s no question in how he will handle this situation. The body can react, but he’s honed it enough. He chooses fight here. He chooses team Pathfinder. And he thanks the adrenaline for the boost. </p>
<p>The door glides open, large overhead lights sizes of barrels illuminating hard dirt floor and metal stairs which carry him easily down into the pit of vipers. Shouts call him out, guns cocking, safeties clicking off. Danger shoots up his spine, tightening all his muscles, elongating every millisecond for his benefit. His life is in his hands, and so is the Pathfinder’s, fate taking a backseat. Farah looks up, the world crystal clear, her eyes glinting harshly with blade in hand, and he can see her other hand loosen its hold on Ryder’s hair. Shock ripples through the remaining Roekaar to see another human, and he raises his pistol, hand steady with athirst for the grandeur heroism which will mask the thrill of bitterly conceded submission to him. Rage curls Farah’s upper lip, the knife raising in high for a heavy handed swing. </p>
<p>“Not so fast.” </p>
<p>The shot rings out, twirling the blade out of her stinging, bloody hand smoking from the bullet. Light flashes against the edge of her weapon, clinking against the hard floor and skidding out of reach. After a guttural growl of pain, Farah roars at him, “Alien terrorist! You will pay with your life!” Tearing her gun free of its holster to shoot, he lifts his detonator in the other hand, his advantage so exhilarating he can’t keep his smile from stretching into a bloodthirsty grin. The shadow king makes an entrance. </p>
<p>Ears ringing, Reyes moves through the dust that has erupted a storm against the explosions, catching fire to the Roekaar grenades which gave his blast extra kick. Slow fuses rupture and bury a number of soldiers in a shattered ceiling rock loosened from the shaking, giving him more chaos to work under and he crouches near the collapsed, but living Pathfinder team. </p>
<p>Ryder coughs, dust caking half his face, mixing with the blood and going muddy. Throat a little raw, and mind probably keening from the injury to his skull and eardrums, he croaks, “You’re late..” Twisting so Reyes can let him free of the cuffs holding his wrists together, he exposes more than just his literal handicap. Reyes’ stomach is still molten lava, burning with conquest sweet from the height of the risk. The blood keeping his thoughts quick suddenly rushes down, thick in response to Ryder. You were still waiting for me. </p>
<p>“I like you like this, Ryder.” He whips out a small pocket tool, slipping a screwdriver into the keyhole, “Maybe we should just keep you like this.” </p>
<p>“Don’t mess around.” Ryder groans a warning, head looking heavy for his neck resting against the cold rock. The dust is settling, orders in Shelesh cutting through, and Liam shouts to them, several feet away, “Can you guys flirt at a more appropriate time?” </p>
<p>The handcuffs unlatch loudly, Ryder hissing from throbbing, sore muscles and stiffness. He uses an arm to lift up to an elbow, breathing before he forces himself to his feet, swaying ever so slightly, “I’ll get Jaal, you get Liam. Then let’s take care of this.” </p>
<p>Reyes slips the handcuffs into a back pocket and says coolly, “You got it, Pathfinder.” </p>
<p>Liam jerks his head up with Reyes’ hands on him and he says, unshaken, “I’ve still got a bet on the table so don’t waste any time.” His teeth shine through the grime of the explosion and the streaks of his own blood. Quick to roll his shoulders to release their tension, Liam pushes himself up, clearly no stranger to pain. His handcuffs are tossed aside, both men rising and pulling their guns to position. </p>
<p>Jaal speaks up, dusty figure standing, “That is still on?” He sounds genuinely surprised. </p>
<p>Great the whole Pathfinder team keeps a good attitude in the face of death. Ryder tosses a sticking grenade to an oncoming Roekaar blind with animalistic rage which throws him back into the dirt violently, and away from Reyes and Liam. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder!” A savage threat thunders, Farah’s form cutting through the last remains of smoke and uncaring to the fire eating up barrels of supplies, blankets, shelves of bottled foods. She rushes them, intent on putting as many bullets in Ryder’s body as she possible can. Several shots ping off the stairs, sharply lodging in the walls. His shield deflects her only good shot and he throws out a hand, fearless of the bullets, knocking her in the nose with the palm of his hand.  Before he can get his shotgun free, she’s on him, gun tossed aside and forearm sharp with a hidden knife. Ryder catches Farah’s arm, twisting it around so the edge is away from him. The knee to her gut doubles her over and he, in the free second, tugs his shotgun from its holster spinning it by its trigger. </p>
<p>Jaal and Liam’s shots echo up into the ceiling, lights above rocking and trembling against their war on one another. Reyes assesses the damage, pockets the knife left forgotten on the floor, which is splattered with Farah’s blood. He rifles down an approaching soldier, seeing Ryder kick Farah back, but not shoot her. Maybe he does not want to take her life, even after her bottomless pit of hatred for him and all his kind spit venom and threatened to bleed him dry. Your leniency will get you killed someday, Ryder…</p>
<p>Waiting for her to lunge one last time, Reyes fires a shot mercifully through the skull of Farah’s head, crumbling her to the floor, effectively spraying Ryder’s face with blue. Mercy and its many angles. The air is settling, quieting in their victory although the Pathfinder seems troubled, somberly crouching next to Farah’s uninhabited body, no longer pinched with fury. He closes her eyes, wipes away a drip of blood from an eyelid. Reyes watches from afar, acutely aware of Ryder’s turmoil, seeing for himself the knight of the Initiative shouldering blame, and grieving their timeline where good soldiers with fire in their hearts lose their lives because they must be soldiers in the first place. The Charlatan can reduce that heartache for you, Ryder. You don’t have to kill if you’re willing to take my hand. He’s sure he can persuade.. </p>
<p>“Still mad?” He asks, approaching the Pathfinder while he picks up his helmet and Liam’s which had been tossed aside when they were ambushed. His face is a smear of dirt and dried blood, eyes bright in the filth. Nonchalant, cool, Farah’s death doesn’t concern a Collective agent bred in the anarchy and disillusionment created by unfit leaders. The nail marks across walls that are a semblance for power from the starving trying to dismantle another ineffective, twisted tortured way of living prove Farah one more attempted paragon for a way of life. She just didn’t have the nails for it but there’s nothing wrong with dying for a cause. The pits of their most hellish realities do nothing to ward him off. This is Kadara. His action doesn’t bring reproach; Ryder is not so ignorant to the loss of battle but in his glossy stare lives a wounded moral. Yet something in his face tells Reyes he’s underneath the skin, his words have meaning. </p>
<p>He can sway Ryder’s mind. </p>
<p>“The streets of Kadara are safe again.” He says, diverted by the unconvinced glance he gets as Ryder tosses Liam his helmet, him and Jaal approaching and debating their body count. They have strength in togetherness and are not shaken by the shadow of death over their shoulders like green soldiers. </p>
<p>“I’m telling you, I should get double for the one I caught over your shoulder. My aim was hall of fame worthy.” </p>
<p>“You cannot count one life for two.” Jaal argues, “That is disrespect towards the soul you have released.” </p>
<p>“I do believe I can compete in this game.” Reyes engages with them, “I have at least seven.” Still watching the Pathfinder in the corner of his eye wipe his face, gingerly touching the knot on the back of his head. </p>
<p>“That is one more than me.” Jaal admits, folding his arms loosely. Liam laughs, “We’re even! Sounds like Jaal is buying all our drinks.” While his Angaran teammate rolls his eyes Liam throws out an arm and loops it around Reyes’ shoulders, “Glad you decided to show up, was starting to sweat back there.” </p>
<p>“Think of it as a Collective favor.” </p>
<p>Liam pats him once on the back, “I’ve met some good agents in the Collective. But that’s two favors now? Can’t blame me for thinking some things are too good to be true.” Reyes feels Ryder’s attention on him like a spotlight.</p>
<p>He makes sure his expression remains level, “The Charlatan needs the Port secure in order to provide their services. This is merely job security.” One less complication to seize power goes unsaid but felt twice as hard. </p>
<p>Liam, hands on his hips, standing by, gives a shrug of acknowledgment by one shoulder. Ryder gives a brief nod, “Then we’re working towards a similar goal.” The words flush Reyes’ neck beneath his collar, but Ryder moves on, finding no fault in the logic, “We should get in touch with Evfra, tell him about Farah.” Liam nudges Jaal who says, “Ah, so it should be me? Because I am purple?” </p>
<p>“You think he’ll answer a communication from me?”</p>
<p>Both members walk back towards her body, to scan and report to the Resistance, Liam unfinished with his jokes. Ryder is watching, a little glassy eyed, vulnerable beneath his raw emotions which seem to be pushing at the seams despite his composed directions. What is weighing on you, mighty Pathfinder? </p>
<p>“You did good, Ryder.” Reyes gets closer, observing how it sinks in, how maybe he’s lost some blood and a fresh pang of rue works against his usual tightly controlled temperance. Reyes likes those eyes on him, like his words can alleviate some of the weight that’s threatening to drown him, like Ryder wants to believe him. The icon of hope, finding solace in this mouth? </p>
<p>“Don’t worry,” He puts a hand to Ryder’s arm, “I’ll let all the important people know who to thank.” </p>
<p>He’s finally getting a good look at his savior, (and a cause for his kidnapping.) But the comfort of hearing he’s done right, that Farah’s death isn’t another ball and chain to drag him into hell is too compelling. The candid, blameless words come from a world he doesn’t really understand but wants to help. Ryder looks at Reyes, and says, like a confession, “We make a good team.” Enticing, like the first sip of whiskey going in to wash the tongue, it kisses down to the belly hotly. Tempting because the Pathfinder family is a good place to be a better person. </p>
<p>“Careful,” Reyes warns silkily, knowing damn well he’s referencing a conversation he overheard in the Tempest. Knowing damn well that he will likely hurt these tender feelings that light a very specific and irresistible fire which he’s been chasing elsewhere. Burning things down for it elsewhere. But that’s the issue with fire… it keeps burning. “I’ll start thinking you like me.” </p>
<p>An unguarded half smile, because Ryder gets hurt and accepts it, welcomes it in his perceived weakness, “Would that be so bad?” He asks, and he means the question across more than just between them. Asks it for the future, aware of his uniform, and of a world Reyes lives in that he doesn’t belong to. A world that could be inviting Reyes in, unknowing of just who’s on the other side. </p>
<p>“Depends.” He answers, depends for you. How much will you sacrifice to be with me? How much will I take from you until you can’t give me anymore? You’re my biggest prize yet. Invites with his eyes, that he knows how desire feels, how want bleeds hot, “Don’t be a stranger, Pathfinder.” The words are an offer, an acknowledgment. He knows who he is and doesn’t mind the burden of the insignia. Offers their relationship, knowing he has Ryder in a moment of weakness, keenly aware he has neither guaranteed nor denied anything. </p>
<p>His ride back has him hard against the bike’s smooth seat. He wants! He craves! He can feel the ache in his bones, deep to his marrow. An entire planet, an AI powerful enough to alter the very ability of the body, and a handsome young champion’s affection. Greed, voracious need for status, cunning brilliance, they’re all good except when the award is less than tempting. Reyes has known plenty of mediocre pastimes, bet on odds irrelevant to him and bided his time for something more. Something thoroughly, unarguably his. Kadara, under rule of the Charlatan, and Ryder bearing a certain devotion to Reyes Vidal, even at the potential of that souring to the skeletons in his closet. To some degree, he hungers for it, to wound the Pathfinder so he can never forget him, never be rid of their time together. The shadow lord of the Kadara Port and the chosen hero of Andromeda. A scar completely by his hand. Would Ryder massage it so nicely as he does his others? That is a form of affection Reyes can depend on. </p>
<p>He doesn’t think he can keep him, but he can become a part of him. Even if those whiskey eyes’ smolder goes harsh with contempt at the mention of his name, hate is the closest thing to love. Reyes Vidal, a man whose true identity lies within a house of mirrors and the secrecy of his memories has come to Andromeda to make a new history with his mark on it. Ryder is no exception. </p>
<p>Returning to the slums, Reyes finds Keema, gives her Farah’s knife and they go to his office of sorts, where his computer and various work related consoles wait. She is pleased at the success of their revenge, aware of Farah’s name and her disgust towards aliens. Of her affection towards Akksul. </p>
<p>“She had such strong conviction. It is too bad it made her rigid, inflexible.” Keema sighs from a chair across his desk, turning the knife and examining the blood. “The universe is about change, constant change. Her love for Akksul stunted her ideas. She would have been good for the Resistance.” Lowering the blade, she looks at Reyes, suddenly very aware of his face. </p>
<p>“So you have been successful with the Pathfinder.” She murmurs, then she points the knife at him, “He better improve the state of Kadara before you expose more than just a suave, considerate subordinate. He will know of you sooner or later.”</p>
<p>“Then let’s plan for later.” Reyes replies, effectively appearing unconcerned, “He is not so narrow-minded to let personal affect business. He will provide his services to Kadara.”</p>
<p>“You sound endearingly partial, Vidal.” </p>
<p>He gives her a cryptic smile, hands folding atop the desk. “Hardly. I can just tell.”</p>
<p>“You know, Vidal,” She suddenly becomes plainspoken, her two universes challenging him, “You can want him honestly. You don’t need to sabotage it on purpose. You are more than a reflection of Kadara.” Her mind works fast around Farah, and around him, around the idea of adoration and what they have between men and their causes and their hats. </p>
<p>Those all seeing eyes. She does not often subject him to her opinions on his emotional state, even when they both know she can sense it. She hurts a sensitive, secret part of him that has given up wanting things he thinks he cannot take. Wanting things that remind him of a time when he dreamed of freedom costing him hard work, instead of a hardened heart. That he could change his path if he believed, that he could be a just man and generosity was man’s truth. He cannot kill that part of himself but he guards it well and it keeps him company at night when he wants to hear of old hopes and yearnings. </p>
<p>He lowers his gaze to the stolen cigarette pack, to the corner that’s pressed in from his pocket. “He will hate me.” </p>
<p>“Do you think so little of him?”</p>
<p>Reyes breathes, touching the pack to affirm its realness. Not of Ryder, but of their world. “For a man like the Pathfinder to stay above the chaos he will need to hate men like me. It will keep him safe.” </p>
<p>The smoke swirls, clinging to his clothes and his hair, sticking to his fingers. It reminds him of the Milky Way, bars and hangers that he can see in his mind’s eye. People with him, a uniform for flight training. Cheap liquor and dreams of stars. Pride in a freshly ironed patch. Reyes breathes in another stinging cloud, outside the Tartarus, but above on the balcony to look over a flat and desperate society. A drunk is already folded on a set of stairs up into one of the living quarters buildings, sleeping with a bottle still loose in a limp hand. Outcast pirates walk underneath, a Turian and a human, their voices audible. </p>
<p>“Hasn’t been another murder.”</p>
<p>“Sloane’s been enraged nobody’s been brought forward to take the fall.”</p>
<p>“She’ll probably choose some unlucky bastard…” The club opens, music pouring out and pretty girls’ voices greeting fresh customers. Kian’s early tonight, thanks to a certain smuggler providing a fresh cart of vodka, snagged off the Nexus by a nimble, wily agent who goes by ‘Fox’ for her red hair and angled canines like fangs. Reyes blows smoke, reminded briefly of a bunch of cargo that will be late soon if he does not find it. His gaze falls on Liam who is jumping up the stairs to greet him. </p>
<p>“Yo, Vidal.” He settles next to him, looking fresh and well rested. “We’re about to burn a hole through Jaal’s wallet. You’ve got a well-deserved drink with your name on it.” Laid-back, open, Liam draws people in, looks at them as straight forwardly as possible. He pushes boundaries, questions distance, optimistic in the presence of dissonance believing whole heartedly in consonance. A man with a vision, Reyes respects that. A man unafraid to look discontent in the face and take his shirt off his back to fix things. A little selfless for a Collective agent but Reyes doubts he’ll stray too far from Ryder’s side. They balance each other out. Liam Kosta prefers diplomacy.</p>
<p>“Where is Jaal?” He asks behind his cigarette. </p>
<p>“Coming down with Ryder. Had to make sure guy didn’t have a concussion. Gil complained about the blood on the seats in the Nomad.”</p>
<p>Reyes gives this a second to sink in, both their eyes following Jaal and Ryder who are now coming into sight from across the slums. “How’s your head?”</p>
<p>Instinctively, Liam touches the back of his skull, “Ah, you saw? Nah, I’ve got me a hard head. They say that’s why I’m so stubborn.” Flashes a grin and looks across the slums, eyes seeing things that are yet to be, “Can’t wait to see this place after we get the vault working again..” His unwavering faith is a breath of fresh and quite figurative air. “Here they come.” He waves to Ryder and Jaal who are below. Jaal is eyeing Tartarus suspiciously, clearly finding the neon lights and hardened vomit stains at the corners unwelcoming. Ryder is bandaged, showered and out of armor. They join Liam and Reyes, Jaal tightly folding his arms.</p>
<p>“You’ve picked a shady place to drink.”</p>
<p>Liam laughs, and says wryly, “Is there any place you wouldn’t call shady on Kadara?” </p>
<p>Ryder steps forward, eyes on Reyes, flicking to the cigarette and then to his face. Liam grins, holding out his arms, making sure they’re all in the circle, “Guys! We did some good! I’ve shook hands with Angara in the market, we’re making a difference.” His gaze falls to Ryder who returns a genuine smile. The injured conscience that Ryder keeps so contained in his reports, interviews, is harder to mask in the moment, in person but he’s greatly recovered. </p>
<p>“I say we start with a shot, warm us up!” </p>
<p>“You guys go on ahead; I’ve got something talk to Reyes about first.” Ryder says, and although he keeps a smooth expression, Liam can’t help a lip cocking in sociable realization. His dark eyes glitter, and he taps Ryder’s upper arm with a supportive fist, “You got it. But if you don’t hurry, I’ll drink yours.” </p>
<p>Jaal nods to Reyes, and then puts a hand on Ryder’s shoulder as he passes. Reyes drops the stub of the cigarette and crushes it under a boot. “Ryder, in front of your friends?” He mock chastises. But his pulse picks up, body responding. </p>
<p>Rolling his eyes, Ryder rests on the balcony, and when Reyes pulls the pack of cigarettes out to offer one as he himself tugs a new one free with his lips, Ryder observes, “Those are mine, aren’t they?” Whiskey eyes make Reyes thirsty in a very special way that only Ryder can satisfy right now. </p>
<p>“You caught me.” Doesn’t explain himself, waits for anger, for annoyance. But he’s met with a fond look of expectation. It makes his heart twist, a long lost sensation.  </p>
<p>Ryder takes the cigarette, looking at it, eyes going distant. </p>
<p>“You don’t seem the type.” Reyes comments, lighting his still between his lips, muffling his words ever so slightly. The smoke curls and settles on their shoulders, a thin blanket. Ryder slowly, carefully, like a ritual of some sort, puts his own between his lips, turning towards Reyes to light it on the end of Reyes’, “They’re my sister’s actually. This’s her brand.” His words are hushed by the closeness of their faces and a tiny fire kisses his freckles, focusing the shadows and emphasizing Ryder’s straight, pretty brow. </p>
<p>He breathes, holds the smoke, squeezes it until his lungs ache and then sighs out, “I thought I smelled it for a moment.” A chasm of private emotion, a life from a distant set of stars and a Ryder before the shackles of duty. A Ryder from lightyears away, still smoking his sister’s brand and rubbing scarred knuckles to new troubles. Despite his obvious pain, Ryder doesn’t seem fractured by his grief although he’s more prone to being touched by tribulations than Reyes’ initially thought. He’s a considerate man who has good people looking out for him and surprisingly, Reyes can’t imagine a lone Pathfinder on the field, finding the imagery lonely, ominous. Suddenly, he recalls a picture of a gloomy, purple and cold sky, encased by yawning, ever tall mountains and Ryder’s snowy, crystal growing armor and an unmistakable silence.</p>
<p>He changes the subject, avoiding the sentimental, “How’s your head?” </p>
<p>“it’s fine. Just a bump.” Calm, and reflective. The cigarette cools him, “I wanted to thank you. For your help with the Roekaar.” </p>
<p>“You don’t need to thank me, Pathfinder.” </p>
<p>“You saved my life.” He explains, voice soft but firm. He’s an honorable man. That makes one of them. </p>
<p>“Well, I can think of some ways we can celebrate that…” Coy, inviting, Ryder half smiles to the proposition, and says, “Yeah?” His cigarette is all but forgotten for a new way of coping, one that can speak and caress. His pupils fill with Reyes’ face, binding pleasure to assurance. </p>
<p>They go back to his small room by Tartarus, which is simple, dark and private. Ryder looks it over without judgment, his friends and party shots forgotten in their solidarity. This is a place without the Initiative, or uniforms. Without lights blaring and reports waiting to be written and consumed with little care of the suffering behind the words. Without Farah or other ghosts waiting endlessly. </p>
<p>The door glides closed, Reyes tossing his jacket onto a chair by a simple monitor. Ryder is looking out the slender rectangular window where Tartarus is half visible from an angle, and so is an Oblivion den. He looks handsome, thoughtful, wearing the kind of dignity only a man who can answer to insurmountable requests fully and responsibly can. A neon strip of pink touches his eyes, and the bridge of his nose. The Pathfinder, the glorious, righteous, noble Pathfinder, here, in his Kadara slums safe room for him. </p>
<p>It’s intoxicating. </p>
<p>“Tell me, Pathfinder,” Reyes says, sitting on the cot and looking at a man he wants to devour whole, “Why did you hesitate killing Farah?”</p>
<p>Ryder’s eyes narrow briefly in startled examination. Rather than accusatory, he’s caught off guard by Reyes’ awareness. He takes a moment to think, but when he sits next to Reyes, squeezing his hands and gripping that first knuckle, his voice has strength, “We lose too many good people. The Roekaar… they have good reason to distrust new aliens in their universe. Farah’s hatred isn’t personal. She would’ve been a solid ally against the Kett.” He’s looking to a future, a thriving future for everyone. Bears an authentic, mature respect for all those fighting. Farah is not his ghost. “And..” </p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p>“I thought she might want to see Havarl, go home, speak to her family. Find her hope again. I wanted to give her that chance.” The softer, idealistic words are a kind of divulging, a glimpse into Ryder’s heart. Compassion has lived on despite the hellish landscape of their worlds and it shines through, like sun through clouds. Reyes finds a ray touch him at just the right spot. Is there enough sunlight for even the darkest parts of this world?</p>
<p>What kind of Pathfinder would his father have been? What would Ryder be doing now if he hadn’t been pulled into the spotlight by his blood relations? Reyes is suddenly hyperaware of the fragility of fate. Ryder could have been one of those unlucky first recon specialists lost in the sands of Eos, bones radioactive and nameless. A casualty in the Scourge tragedy, pod lost in space, tumbling forever through time and silence. His empathy is a kind of harmony, a sense the universe is righting itself. And he’s here, alive and partially by his hand, a hand that’s golden from touching fate. </p>
<p>“She would have killed you.” </p>
<p>Ryder flashes him that half smile, “You had my back.” </p>
<p>Blind… can he call that blind trust? Or has he invited it, proven himself in some ways that only the Pathfinder can see, taken liberties with the other man? In another life, Reyes might be a man worthy of Ryder’s altruism but here he is a criminal fragmented by personas and none of them innocent men. It isn’t remorse, that can’t sting him here because even with his sins sticking to his back, waiting to be let in, he’s never denied this part of himself. His corruption is no different than the Salarian who tugs on Ryder’s collar to strangle obedience from him except Reyes is honest to who he really is. There is no poorly camouflaged superiority through political trappings or pretentious decisions justified by hollow words. He’ll have his regrets, his wrong doings but he won’t shrink from them, or his longings. And he won’t deny himself this man, despite anything else prying for his attention. If he has the present wealth, then he’ll use it. </p>
<p>“Mind if I borrow your shower?” Ryder asks, standing. He looks good in his off work pants and a simple t-shirt. Unassuming, but there’s charm to the basics. He pulls off the shirt, the kiss mark winking to Reyes. His stomach heats, making his lower half stiffen in excitement, fueled by the knowledge this is against his allies’ better judgments. That Ryder wants him anyway in that decent way of his. </p>
<p>“Only if you don’t mind an audience.” Reyes hums, coming out of his thoughts. The Pathfinder has a way of making him reflect. </p>
<p>“I’ve had plenty of communal showers.” Ryder parries, unbuttoning and kicking off his pants and shoes. The last to go is his underwear, white and clearly standard. Maybe he doesn’t have any of his own clothes. That would explain the simplicity. They both find a sense of self in their masks.  </p>
<p>“What age did you go to military school to become so desensitized to group showers?” Reyes asks off handedly, greatly interested in the details that make Ryder who he is but willing to feign casualty in order to get them. The water turns on, and the clear, glass door slips closed. Ryder’s tapered hips and strong arms only slightly blurred. </p>
<p>Over the noise of the spray, Ryder answers, “Fifteen. I was enrolled in boarding school.” </p>
<p>“And your sister?” His eyes fall to Ryder’s omni-tool, screen dark sitting with the pile of clothes.</p>
<p>“Her as well. She was a lot smarter than me though.” They laugh together, the water splashing against the tiled floor. “I was better at following directions, physical efforts, tactical teamwork. She had vision, just- she could really sell an idea. Great at debate. Although sometimes that got the better of her, got her into more than a few fights. She’d get so wound up about things! I could listen to her all day.” A loving barrage of sibling affection, “That was when we were younger. She mellowed out, started that bad habit of smoking, but got really deep into thinking about the Citadel’s future.” </p>
<p>Reyes can relate. </p>
<p>“She was assigned peace-keeping which made her happy for the most part. This future vision she had- she wanted to bring further development to the people. She felt like there weren’t enough opportunities for everyone to prove themselves. She wanted out of the military but..” The water splashes, Ryder cleaning his body, and preparing for their unity. Reyes almost doesn’t catch the trailing sentence, eyes burning with hunger, too distracted to examine the pockets of Ryder’s pants. </p>
<p>“But?”</p>
<p>“Well, we shifted courses with the Andromeda cause.” He finishes, words stiff. The recollection here stunts him and Reyes processes this abrupt shift. Ah. Alec Ryder’s fall from grace and his inevitable dishonorable discharge shaming both his children and ultimately boarding them from their careers. He vaguely remembers the defunding of Ellen Ryder’s biotic line in the news. He doesn’t really remember anything about the siblings but budding beginnings are not front page gossip. </p>
<p>“Tell me more about your sister.” He doubles back, “Is she older than you?” </p>
<p>“Technically. We’re twins. She’s always seemed older though.” A faraway, tender tone takes his voice, “Always knew what she wanted. Loved the beach; when our mother was home from the labs during the summer months she would take us to the ocean. Sara could swim for hours. Every time she’d have a new friend or sea creature to show us and she’d share our picnic with other kids, telling them great stories of our mother’s work or our father’s missions in the stars.” </p>
<p>The door comes open, Ryder’s cheeks warm with the steam and hair wet. The light on the shower ceiling shimmers on his gleaming body, sitting on the crown of his head and his shoulders, a halo and wings. He’s waiting for a towel but Reyes instead enjoys the view, innocently continuing the conversation, “So you do like the beach.” </p>
<p>Ryder, smiling, slowly and expectantly folds his arms and leans on the door frame, “Actually,” He says with punctuation, “I was afraid of swimming when I was young. I got pulled out with the tide once and my father had to come in and save me. Are you enjoying yourself?” </p>
<p>“Immeasurably.” Reyes glides his eyes across every inch of Ryder’s body, dropping low, the calves shaped to help carry him in the field, and thighs, bruised knees, he dips again, following the line of muscle in the leg strong from jumping, and then along the hip, caressing the belly button, and the line of hair down, up along his chest, speckled with freckles and the healthy roundness of his biceps, then he triumphantly notices the twitch of Ryder coming to life and the flush of stimulation across his face. Meeting those eyes, shadowed by pupil and the light, Ryder is staring at him, the humor transformed. </p>
<p>“I’ll get you that towel.” Reyes rises in one smooth motion, taking his time, making Ryder wait, watch him pull open the wall drawer, watch him in the sliver of neon light coming in through the window. The air changes, now heavy between them. The attention on him presses against his back, holds him around the waist, feeling like hands. His room retains a heat he can’t keep on his own. </p>
<p>Turning, towel in hand, Reyes’ heart thumps against his chest, in his ears, along his throat. Ryder pushes his still wet hair back, illuminated beneath yellowed light, watching a man in the shadows, more aroused than before. A thrill runs through his blood, fast, like a high and Reyes responds in his own pants, the crotch tightening. Each step like gravity, Ryder draws him in, the lines of water meteors on warm skin, dripping along his throat and nicely darkening his eyelashes. No unnecessary performing, no lies concealed as sweet nothings, behind them hide no knives, no intent to betray at the first glint of bounty unprotected. Ryder is here to take nothing from him. </p>
<p>They touch hands when Ryder takes the towel, first drying his hair, careful around the bandages, water resistance but still freshly tender. He’s quick, used to being on schedule and while he dries himself, Reyes gets undressed, finds condoms and lube. The smell of his shampoo is warm, this room of his a blessing; here the Pathfinder is irrevocably his, and soon he will have the moment to prove it. </p>
<p>Ryder tosses the towel over the open shower door, back an array of pretty muscles, old bruises gone, faded with time. He sees Reyes in his underwear, black, tight, and he earns an appreciative stare, serious want coming into his expression. Observing being observed, watching Ryder pull his bottom lip into his mouth, thinking of him, and how many hours they spent in the opposite positions. With a slow, provocative tug along his shaft beneath the cotton, Reyes draws Ryder’s attention back up, a finger crooking. </p>
<p>Invitation accepted, Ryder approaches, pressing Reyes against the wall, another mirror of a memory of theirs, kissing him deeply, touch buzzing sparks up his spine. Hot skin against hot skin, their bodies flush, a thigh coming between Reyes’ legs for friction. Grabbing Ryder by the back of the neck, he pulls him closer, tongue to tongue and breath shared. His hands glide down back, to hips and then to round cheeks, grabbing two handfuls. A gasp suggests pleasant surprise, Ryder’s cheeks radiating heat, eyelashes caressing his skin with pretty kisses. </p>
<p>“Hand me the lube, Ryder.” </p>
<p>It sits on the bed. Blown eyes stare at him and he squeezes again to compel, grazing teeth along his jaw. “I’m waiting.” He murmurs, excited by lips parted with arousal as Ryder reaches, trapped by his hands and arms and leans over. He pops the lid, and coating two fingers, he slips his middle finger in, coaxing relaxation and a nice sound from Ryder’s pleasure. He leans on his arms against the wall, giving Reyes ample access to bite his throat, tightening him all up along his insides. When he curls a finger, he gets a groan that makes his underwear strain to hold him. At two fingers he has Ryder’s hot breath on his neck, a pretty pearl of desire leaking from his tip. </p>
<p>“Did you get ready for me?” He asks into Ryder’s ear, pleased at its warmth. </p>
<p>“Yeah.” Ryder groans, curling an arm around Reyes’ shoulders.</p>
<p>So you were planning to have another night with me. </p>
<p>On the bed, in the melding shadows and with the faint echo of base through the walls, he looks down on Ryder laying beneath him. A lovely glow of red on his cheeks, Ryder slips his fingers into the band of Reyes’ underwear, pulling them down. He leans up, stomach tightening and kisses the tip of his erection, sliding his lips along the underside. His breath becomes hard, hand finding Ryder’s still damp hair. This isn’t the first pretty face he’s had between his legs, and the rush of seducing someone is enough to arouse him, but there’s another level of excitement to have the Pathfinder below him, a man bigger than the entirety of the Initiative itself. A man with power to topple kingdoms. He doesn’t think the thrill can be numbed down, the first time and the second burning underneath his skin so hotly, he’s radiating with it. </p>
<p>He’s hideously gratified to have the Pathfinder, who is so good, so pure! He will cry for even his enemies, mourn their losses when it’s his life on the line, and use that electronic God behind his armor to do right by those who would think nothing of picking through his skull to get his implant for another meal. Slowly, savoring the image and the sensation of sinking into Ryder’s body, Reyes stretches one cheek to get a clear view. </p>
<p>“You’re tight, Ryder.” He comments, voice going husky, his free hand rising to push his hair back. “Or am I big for you?” The tease makes Ryder grin, but before he can make a retort, Reyes bottoms out and he’s gasping, distracted, his hand jerking along the sheets. Reyes presses that hand down, pinning him with his hips to hear moaning in his ear. Those whiskey eyes are closed to pleasure, and as he begins to move, Ryder has his name on his lips. Exactly as he fantasized, tormenting Ryder beneath him with pleasure teetering close to breathless overstimulation, he makes pretty thoughts reality. </p>
<p>Their breathing, the slight creak of the cot, traded noises of fulfillment and brief words to affirm the other, their bodies hold a conversation. Ryder’s arm pulls him closer, and he likes the pinch of concentrated feeling between his eyebrows, lips rosy from kissing murmuring to him. Beneath the Port rusted with old blood and the newly familiar stars, while Sloane mutilates voices for exposing her criminal tactics, and the Kett wait for unsuspecting victims to gun down, he keeps the Pathfinder for a private night, monopolizing his precious time. And he’s not one to deny Ryder the distraction, especially if it’s him. </p>
<p>When he comes, he has a fist around Ryder and they reach euphoria within moments of each other, bliss echoing through their bones. He likes seeing new marks on Ryder’s back and chest, a badge he can’t take off. They pull on their underwear and he picks the cigarette pack out from his pile of clothes. Lighting one, he leans back on the cot, smoke curling. Ryder pulls the cigarette away from his lips to drop him a kiss before he sprawls on the slim opening for him, a leg across Reyes’. His eyes have the heavy tug of a sedated sleepy satisfaction and that warmth Reyes thought was from the shower still sits around him in the room. Maybe it’s Ryder. </p>
<p>“You should get a bigger cot.” He mumbles, pulling the pillow closer to his face. </p>
<p>“Is that an indirect way of telling me this is going to be a frequent thing?” </p>
<p>“What?” Ryder plays coy, voice deep with oncoming sleep, “Me saving planets from devastation? Hope not.” He sighs, arm slipping around Reyes, “S’lot of responsibility.”</p>
<p>“You can stay over anytime you want, Ryder.” </p>
<p>It’s only another minute before Ryder’s breathing evens out, on his stomach with that hot arm across his lap. The bandage on his head is a sharp splash of white, catching his attention and Reyes touches around it gently. </p>
<p>“SAM?” He asks as he rakes his fingers along Ryder’s hair. </p>
<p>“Yes, Mr. Vidal.” </p>
<p>Always awake, always listening. He sucks in a crisp cloud, thinking. Do AIs lie? Do AIs know how to deceive? “What would Ryder have done with Farah if I hadn’t shown up?”</p>
<p>“He would have handled the situation.” SAM answers. “I would have provided my support.”</p>
<p>“So was Ryder in any actual danger?”</p>
<p>“The Pathfinder position will always have risks. But if I am capable, I will not allow the Pathfinder mortal harm. Your assistance was appropriately timed and appreciated.” A rapport with the third party in Ryder’s head with an all seeing gaze and infinite computing power doesn’t have a price Reyes won’t pay. He smiles behind the cigarette, “Anything for Kadara.” He says.  </p>
<p>Nothing lasts forever except for historical relevance which is obtained through political power and he will have that by his Charlatan namesake so he thinks, Reyes Vidal can have Ryder too as well. If just for now. </p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>Equal to the number of people who side with Sloane that the Pathfinder is walking a thin line, convinced he will inevitably become a war trophy to her grip on the Port which rains through tight, military bred fingers like sand, ever changing, there are those who believe he can offer them something. The Collective speaks of a new wave. How agents were involved in solving the murders and that Sloane’s ‘paid protection’ means little without accountability. How the Pathfinder is nothing if not accountable, whether this is good or bad for him. </p>
<p>Rivaling gangs that frequent the slums for means to make credits and drink slink around. Their suspicion is palpable; will the Pathfinder become involved or choose a more neutral ground as he did on Elaaden about the flophouse? Reyes knows more than the aggressive whispers over Oblivion shipments and falsified paperwork. The nuance of stepping into an already established system takes time, patience. But Ryder won’t stand for clear injustice. Human trafficking rings and vanished people are not grey areas that require consideration to the foundations of the Port’s identity. </p>
<p>Sloane takes care of her own but sneers at the costs to provide the slums the same obligations. Her agents indulge their poisons, pick their fights and avoid hierarchal blow back beneath the Port. She actually gains favor with many by giving free reign below, allowing them the mirage of good soldiers while turning a blind eye to Outcast driven violence. Small gangs that have never kept Reyes’ attention, merely the rats of the badlands, begin to buzz like flies. Whose corpse will be the next fluctuation of power? </p>
<p>Cora and Liam by his side, gun holstered and Collective ears all perked for good information, Pathfinder Ryder pledges the end of illegal human trafficking on Kadara. Quite the statement, and not one that Sloane necessarily appreciates. </p>
<p>“You’ll get yourself arrested, Pathfinder.” One of her Krogan guards snarls outside the gate before Ryder can enter the badlands. Bulky armor highlights his knives, and number of guns, pockets of ammo clear on his arms and belt. Vakmar Krid, a good shot, half blind in one eye and a massive kill trophy collector. His loyalty to Sloane is built on a foundation of brutality and war honor, no other method of earning his respect available. </p>
<p>Liam is half settled in the Nomad’s driver’s seat, ready to pull her out the gate for vehicles and he looks over, waiting for the go. Ryder waves him on, inciting a growl from Krid’s usual partner, Dokrax Chug, a slighter smaller, all fists and no give, Krogan with a taste for Angaran tobacco and cigars, “I’m gunna drink from your skull if you don’t sit the fuck back down. This ain’t your place!” </p>
<p>Ryder, helmet secured, turns to Krid who adds, deep, punching accent riddled with aggression, “Sloane’s got rules.” He jabs Ryder’s chest plate, punctuating his words, “You got that, little boy?”</p>
<p>Knocking the Krogan’s hand back, Ryder responds, “If she’s got the jurisdiction, why doesn’t she handle the rings?” Classic, cool Ryder, nothing gets under your skin. How are your hips today?</p>
<p>Cora’s eyes are strong on Krid’s face, lips set seriously. She’ll let Ryder speak for himself but she isn’t one to simply take to blatant disrespect and certainly not promises of violence. “I’m going to need you to step back from the Pathfinder.” She orders, and several Collective agents on the general line whistle in rising interest. “Or I’ll take your stance as a real threat on his life and you’ll regret that.” </p>
<p>Chug flies forward, stopped only by Krid’s large hand on his face, keeping his gnarling and hands at bay. Narrowing his eyes, looming over top Ryder and Cora, he hisses, “You’re lucky I don’t have the authority to deem you a real hazard to the Port. If you take one step over the line, I’m going to enjoy putting your ass behind bars.” </p>
<p>They retreat, capable of only making talk. This makes the Collective chat email ripple with teasing, safe with distance and code. </p>
<p>&gt;Gunna run back to mommy Sloane’s side!&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;It would’ve made my life a lot easier if she had just shot Chug. Asshole gave me a black eye the other day outside Kralla’s Song…&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Krid got intimidated by a human. That’s gunna be the talk tonight.&lt;</p>
<p>Team Pathfinder back into the badlands. There’s been a lead by a request to find a young woman improperly banished with connections to a growing organ selling operation. The agents moving the packaged goods are tight lipped about who is at the top running the business but Reyes is sure it’s just some low life smooth talker with little credibility elsewhere to make his money. No one takes their job out into the badlands unless they’re hiding something or can’t keep their connections. </p>
<p>So for now he’ll focus on his own business endeavors, specifically the missing cargo. It takes a little back and forth with several agents until he hears a name he was hoping wouldn’t be involved in any more of his deals. Zia Cordier, still making rounds on Kadara and drinking men out of their precious market. That’s why he has a limit with her. While he isn’t one to tell anyone how to get their needs met, a hired pilot of a carrier ship underneath his name should know better than to drink with that hellcat and certainly to count his cargo with a sharper eye. The hangover was likely enough punishment. </p>
<p>She won’t be easy to find, if she’s still hiding a faction of her operations on Kadara. It’s very possible she’s kept a warehouse for cliental privacy and low cost transportation despite her dwindling deals. Keep your own valuables safe and pay no one but yourself for protection to keep the bills down. Very Zia. He’s liked that about her; her money, her rules. He’ll waste resources trying to find her and he certainly has no way to make his deadline without some expectedly expensive aid. Unless a very powerful AI happens to get involved. As usual, Reyes Vidal thanks the universe for the presence of the Pathfinder. </p>
<p>When the Nomad pulls back into the slums, Sloane has Outcast pirates waiting, led by Krid who has two large arms folded over his chest and a glower like acid. Liam is driving, Cora stepping out from the back, tossing a man with his arms tightly bound, and a black eye into the dirt and mud. Several lower quality streams try to pull a better angle on his face, dark hair messy and shoulders hunched. There’s tension in the air, and slum dwellers linger just out of danger as they watch the standoff.  </p>
<p>“Here’s your leader imprisoning people for sales on the black market.” Cora announces, stomping a boot onto his hip to hold him down. Her voice is contained, effectively charged but not vicious. Finally, someone gets the right angle, Johan’s quivering face coming into view, a line of blood still clinging wetly to his lips. Like Reyes thought, a little weasel known for stalking around the hangers and landing pads for unsuspecting, naïve newcomers. Always had a strange glint to his eye. “If you claim Sloane’s to handle prosecution of these kinds of crimes, despite them ongoing until now, then here’s your chance.” </p>
<p>Krid’s jaw audibly grinds. There hasn’t been a challenge so bold to Sloane’s leadership since the birth of the Charlatan and even they don’t have a face. “Where’s your proof? You claim he’s got ties to missing people?”</p>
<p>Ryder steps out of the Nomad, a young, skinny woman in his arms. Her hair is a short, chopped bob, dark eyes fluttering in exhaustion and residual shock. The damsel in distress saved by the knight in shining armor, Tamayo Remi, the innocent victim of a broken, carnivorous system. “Luckily, we saved one of his more recent targets.” The Pathfinder states, “And the inside of his hideout had plenty of proof to establish guilt. But I think you’ll figure all that out soon enough, right now, I need a doctor.” A picture worth a thousand words, Pathfinder Ryder standing against the Outcast agents with a blatant issue Sloane has been disregarding. After a year of the iron fist of a war lord, the world is changing. </p>
<p>Coming forth through the crowds, pushing his way around bystanders, Nakamoto Ryota speaks up, “Let me assist! I am the one providing most medical services here in the slums!” So the doctor’s been following news of the Pathfinder. Dr. Nakamoto comes in-between Krid and Ryder, complicating any further action the Krogan might take against him. Snarling, frustration clear, he snatches up Johan by the binds on his arms and tosses him like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. Whimpering pitifully, Johan lays vulnerable, limp as a ragdoll. </p>
<p>“This isn’t over, Pathfinder.” Krid snaps over his shoulder, “It’s just a matter of time.” But he calls off his guard dogs and they begrudgingly allow the Nomad to pull into parking and Ryder to return with Dr. Nakamoto to his medical station. If Sloane’s anything, she’s punctual about her agents reporting back to her and dealing out punishment. </p>
<p>A beautiful brand for the Collective to side with; stick close to the Pathfinder and you won’t find yourself an unsuspecting victim of organ theft. Stick close to those who stick close and you’ll find yourself sleeping a little easier. The pendulum of power swings. Another fractured corner of influence does nothing but strengthen the shadow reaching across the Kadara people. The Charlatan can expect benefits from the Pathfinder and so can you. Messages out of Ryder’s eye line do no harm to his relationship with the people, especially a certain alluring smuggler. At this rate, he’ll easily have Sloane’s throne, officially rebranding the Outcast name all the while continuing his compatible fun with Ryder. </p>
<p>But first he has an ex to work around.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Rules</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sloane inevitably gets involved and so does her way of running the Port. Reyes looks for a way to clean up his situation with Zia, among other things.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for the support!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As expected, Sloane Kelly orders the Pathfinder to the Outcast headquarters. She’s presenting a thinly veiled system of order, answering herself to no one except her whims. Promises of reward, a market place with little to no tax on anything except for the price paid for entrance and presence, she isn’t a leader far from her people. They want their secrets kept and she wants the Port running. No one is denying that it’s Sloane’s guns keeping the Kett at bay and letting shuttles land. But as the residual shock of the Scourge tragedy dies away, leaving hands wanting more, more security, more money, more opportunity, a leader with vision becomes more necessary. Damage control is only as effective as the sense of danger. She can’t deny the Initiative’s knight is changing things. </p><p>Thanks to several Collective moles presenting as Outcast grunts, we are getting bold, cameras have been set up in Sloane’s throne room. The quality is grainy, and if there’s too much background noise the voices get distorted, muffled in the processing but a fly on the wall allows for better response time. </p><p>Vetra Nyx walks in with Ryder, stopping by Kaetus, Sloane’s level headed Turian second in command. A uniform to cloak something else. Sloane, lounging on her mechanical throne, lifts her head from her omni-tool holographic screen. Guards loiter, some hands on their gun holsters, some idle and holding position. One of Reyes’ men stands off against the wall, keeping his poker face. </p><p>“You’re really testing my patience, Pathfinder.” Sloane addresses him, nodding to Krid to muscle up behind Ryder who doesn’t even pay him a glance. The creaking and clacking of the Krogan’s armor makes for a good intimidation tactic, if it were anyone else. “You may have <em>conveniently</em> disappeared after Vehn Terev’s escape, but I know you were involved.”</p><p>“You don’t have any evidence.” Ryder states, holding his ground. Sloane’s scar, a splash of rippled skin makes for a strange blur on the camera. Slow and curling at the lip and nose like a snarl, she laughs, a testament of her credit to his blatant refusal to bend by her hand. Rising, her boots dirty with her efforts, with the blood of her work, “I don’t need evidence to put a bullet in your skull.” Each word pledges a Kadaran funeral- a clean hole to the forehead, a statement with the most recognizable body parts and the remains tossed into the badlands to dissolve by nightfall. But she doesn’t pull her gun; she still has use for him, no matter how he dodges her attempts to make him fold. Her blazing eyes, one sharp and bright and the other dark, are a detail not lost on camera. Slowly, her bluff stared down, she sits back into her seat, “But right now, I don’t gain anything with Pathfinder brains on my floor. Even with your blatant disrespect.” Her accent carols the vowels when she relaxes, and a black gloved finger loosely points to him, “I will commend you for bringing in Johan, sniffling bastard. He’ll make a <em>great</em> punching bag until he throws his guts up.” </p><p>With the quality, it’s impossible to read the small changes in Ryder’s expressions. </p><p>“You Alliance brain washed pets are all the same. You can look at Kadara and believe we’re all worthless, petty criminals but without me, <em>Director</em>,” The word is rife with mockery, “Tann would have had his bloodbath and no one would be the wiser. The Scourge, the lies, the murder behind closed doors. You think with your shiny toys and fancy title you stand for justice but little boys with daddy’s name writing his paychecks don’t understand what it means to get truly desperate. You’re nothing but another one of Tann’s dogs. </p><p>“Don’t think I don’t get you. We’ve both been Alliance. I believed the Initiative was a way to a better society. One where people would get choices. But it was just another empty promise. Another way to line the pockets of dirty politicians. The only person I can count on to change things is me.” Her powerful explosive collar, filled with small, handheld bombs gleams with the heated wall panel behind her, orange and glowing. She has years on him, and equally twice as much field experience. The only thing keeping him on her level is SAM. “You taking out small criminals here and there proves nothing.”</p><p>“Did you call me here just to insult me?” Ryder finally asks, avoiding taking either bait or playing into a conversation he doesn’t have the groundwork for. She doesn’t trust him, the face of the Initiative and he has nothing to prove he isn’t questioning her power. He has no means to sell his brand here. </p><p>“I know you’ve gotten your way on other planets, playing around in the vaults and lowering your pretty face to whoever’s in charge but I can see you. I yanked this Port out of the fires of hell and I won’t have the fucking Initiative take that from me. You don’t have the history with me or the potential to make this place run like I do. You might be thinking about changing things around, but know this, I <em>will</em> have those vaults running and I’ll still be sitting here after you make that happen. You’re only as welcome as you are useful. Those skewered Kett skulls are just as much a warning to you, Pathfinder. Any activity seen as trying to raise an Initiative flag here will be seen as an act of war.” She flicks her hand to Krid, “Get him out of here. I’ve got a few words to share with Wessler for his recent fuck up.” </p><p>Krid goes to grab Ryder’s arm which is waved off, “I can see myself out. But before that, I wanted to ask about Oblivion.” </p><p>The room chills visibly. Sloane’s posture doesn’t change, but her tone goes icy, “It’s my product. What of it?” </p><p>“You’re abusing good medicine.” </p><p>Her eye roll is palpable; she isn’t insulted merely disgustingly annoyed. “So you’ve been talking to Nakamoto. He sold his rights to the formula. He doesn’t have any right to tell me how to supply a demand. Let alone send you to tell me to stop providing the crutch. Get the fuck out of here.” </p><p>Ryder turns from the room, giving a brief mock bow, all eyes from the communal tables following him as well as Krid, his massive steps booming after him. Vetra waits for her Pathfinder, arms folded next to Kaetus who clearly has something to say. They all three step from the throne room, moving further from the door and the guards watching intently. Behind them, the mole slips out, opening his omni-tool and lowering his eyes. Angling just right, he takes video, half covered by his sleeve, catching the end of Kaetus’ sentence.</p><p>“-stragglers in the badlands. We’ve taken care of most of the Kett, massacred, public executions, freed a lot of people from fear. But there is new word of ambushes, vehicles vanishing. Could be feral local wildlife, sinkholes, but there’s enough people saying it’s Kett.” Kaetus explains in his deep, gravelly voice, bright blue markings clear along his mouth that match a certain woman’s heterochromia. Being a soldier with a lot of years under his belt, he has no qualms asking good resources for assistance. “We don’t need that kind of terror back on the Port.” If Sloane thinks the lingering presence of hostile mutilators goes unnoticed she doesn’t have enough ears in the right places. Even famous Kett hunters find credits here. </p><p>Vetra nods, “Reports as recent as this week, right?” </p><p>“Yeah. I’m not saying it’ll smooth relations between you and Sloane but it can only do the Port good.” Kaetus offers. The camera jerks, a Krogan spitting and surprising him. He moves, catching a decent angle of Ryder’s face. </p><p>“We’ll look into it.” Ryder says and he’s not smiling. Must be exhausting being necessary and hated all at the same time. Stay strong, Pathfinder, you’re our only hope. “I’ll keep in contact.” When Kaetus returns to his leader, the final second of the video is a brief flash of Ryder running his hand over his face, leaning into Vetra to speak with her. Nothing goes unheard by a society of spies. </p><p>Small complications transpire. Inevitable but the slightest shift can change one’s luck. The desire to make credits on Nakamoto’s behalf are irresistible to some. A slim chance comes to light between the Pathfinder team busy with Pathfinder business and overwhelming the Outcast in order to access the Oblivion lab that the drug formula notes could be snatched from underneath everyone’s noses. Collective spies revel in the idea of making a large sum, whispering excitedly within their small face to face ranks. Take the formula hostage, highest bid makes the next chapter with it. Reyes Vidal is just another smooth talking smuggler. What he says to the grunts with untapped talent to wriggle through vents and hack into doors without overriding the security system is out of place, suspicious. He shouldn’t know about the operation on the lab and ultimately gains little snooping in other Collective agents’ money making schemes. Throwing down the line as the Charlatan not to take the opportunity would only work against the fluidity of the agency. The loss of Collective men on the field during this is becoming more and more likely and their leader can do nothing but watch. </p><p>Colt Dalton, the dock manager, picks his teeth with a toothpick, leaning one elbow fully on a small shelf for datapads about entry and fees, “You’re asking again about that cargo?” He sighs, glancing to Reyes who is leaned up against the wall beside him. “You know it was already signed off. Your pilot insisted that nothing else was out of place on that ship. I cleared him myself.” Around them the hustle of their economy rings metal against metal, the roar of engines overwhelming shouting instruction and complaints. The smell of cheap liquor floats by when several hungover Outcast pirates slouch by, groaning about elongated hours and waning free time. </p><p>Reyes thinks a moment. Signed off, and accepted. Likely signed by Zia considering her drinking buddy. But then the cargo would have to be something easy enough she could move it off the docks without help or word of mouth. Unless she moved it between ships. He doesn’t want to blatantly mention her; a name on someone’s tongue says enough. “It was a pretty expensive deal, can’t have good credits go to waste.”</p><p>Dalton grunts agreeably, well aware. He gives the day a brief recollection, then half shrugs with a shoulder, conveniently forgetful. An Anagaran cigar makes its way into his pocket and he finds himself a bit more detail oriented. </p><p>“You know, one of your exes was due that day. Cordier, so you don’t get confused. She had some big money moving through. Seemed a little more snappish than usual but,” He chuckles, letting an old, metal lighter bring his cigar to life between a cocked set of lips, “She was in a good mood. I could tell. Likes to talk, that one. I’m sure I saw her chatting up your pilot.” </p><p>“Merely a drinking partner of mine.” Reyes corrects mildly, sliding the lighter back into his pocket. He can’t complain that no one minds their business because he certainly doesn’t mind his own. “Celebrated at Kralla’s Song?”</p><p>“She’s a consistent one. Hasn’t left the docks since. Hasn’t asked for the clearance.” He confirms, breathing heavy and choking through tight lungs, “Good quality as usual, Reyes! Owe ya one.” Lifting the cigar up, Dalton offers a wave when Reyes slips back into the market, aware of something his finger can’t quite place, like a game piece suddenly off the board that he can’t remember where it originally sat. Better to ask questions he knows the answers to or have the security to not like the answer. He’ll wait for the Pathfinder to return from his pressing mission. He would hate to put a bigger target on his back with one too many inquiries in the wrong place. If he has eyes in places, then so does everyone else. </p><p>Another board he’s been watching puts a piece in play. Bain Massani is all teeth and good humor next to the Pathfinder in full armor with an arm around his neck, friendly comradery clear. That smile that was lost on Ryder’s face hearing of the Kett, of more things he has to spread his already dangerously thin time on, is bright, laughing. Reyes observes from afar arms folded along his usual railing above the Tartarus. What does Ryder feel looking at another warrior proudly dedicated to the same cause with years of tactical offense to offer him in support? Does he find comfort in the man’s strong arm by his side? Or is he merely glad to see a familiar face doing well despite the war? Beneath his railing, a skinny man in goggles fidgets, murmuring to his usual Collective partner, her head half shaved and lips bright blue by tattoo. </p><p>“Isn’t that the Kett hunter? What’s his name..” The man hisses, voice squirrely, hyped on caffeine infused capsules and probably several nights with little sleep. Reyes knows him by association, a budding hacker going by the alias Zip. Young, a little reckless with his code but witty and craving something to put his name on. The woman next to him folds her arms, looking on seriously. </p><p>“It’s definitely him. It’s Bain. Doesn’t that mean they’re Kett hunting?” </p><p>“A front for the lab?” </p><p>Maybe talk a little quieter and you won’t get killed before you make it to the playing field. Not that their Charlatan thinks it’s worth the risk. He doesn’t have any money in the Oblivion business and it all makes their local doctor weary to the point of chronic fatigue. </p><p>When he glances across the slums, he sees another couple of Collective agents, chewing and watching the Pathfinder wait for the Nomad to gain clearance alongside Vetra and Peebee whose contagious laughter echoes into the high ceiling. Bain looks tall next to Ryder, and confident. For the casual conversation between allies out in the open, his hand lingers on the Pathfinder’s shoulder a little longer than typical. The gates creak open, a guard on top the wall waving them on and they hop into their vehicle, Peebee first who sticks a head out and gets several fond waves of exasperation, likely a joke that has even Vetra giving it a chuckle. Ryder and Bain get in last, that same hand patting Ryder’s lower back as he gets in, passenger seat for their special guest. Give the man a crown too, make it out of Kett bones. The movement has Zip, his partner and the other, heavy browed agents slide into action, nonchalantly slipping away for better surveillance. Stepping away from the railing, Reyes decides he’ll have a drink to gutsy agents and burn away the sensation lining his stomach unusual and unwelcome for him in his recent years. </p><p>Evening rolls around, the night dropping down heavily. Stars prick the dark, wispy clouds crawling along. His first shot goes down easy and the second makes the club lights of Tartarus meld into the music, his thoughts so inviting Reyes hardly notices until Lachlan is leaning against the bar beside him, dark eyes ever searching the crowd, the dancers but unafraid to look directly at him under her brow. </p><p>“What a pleasant surprise.” He says, although it lacks authenticity. On the stage across the dance floor, a lifted platform with a special laser defense rippling in pastel blues and pinks, two Asari dancers coil around each other, platform shoes large and white and glossy. Drinks slosh, the floor gleaming with sticky alcohol. </p><p>“Can I buy you a drink?” Lachlan asks, her straight forward and blunt words coming through just barely beneath the bass. She looks well, her cheeks full and her attention clear, undivided. The usual dark one piece she wears, accented by her own belts, looks like a stolen Nexus pilot uniform. Her lips tick up on one side in the slightest smile as they keep eye contact. Around them conversations blur, in and out, nothing of interest catching. </p><p>“I could never refuse a free drink.” He slowly, keeping their gazes locked, turns to rest his arms on the bar counter. She slips into the mess of those waiting to order. With his back to the crowds, the throngs of moving arms and nightly buzzed attraction bringing hips and mouths close he listens. The door glides open, rippling the effect of the bass against the ceiling and the heavy step of a Krogan enters. Chug’s distinct high but throaty voice unmistakable.</p><p>“You joinin’ us, Albadas? Hell, ain’t you on shift. A little ballsy, but I like it.” He’s laughing, clearly already a few drinks in. They get in line after Lachlan who watches her own back. Another Krogan is standing by Chug’s shoulder. </p><p>The Turian, Albadas, an Oblivion den master and transporter, slips his sharp thumbs into his chest plate in his usual relaxation tick, “Haven’t seen the truck. Can’t get anyone to answer any contact. If I know what’s good for me, I’m getting five drinks in before this hits the fan. It won’t be me going out there to fix it.” His yellow eyes hardly move from the line, “You know they said things would change after the Pathfinder got here.”</p><p>Chug waves that off with a harsh swing of one hand Lachlan barely steps out of the way for. “Bah!” He snaps, offended, “You sound like all the pamphlets! You <em>sound</em> like a dumbass.” His friend chortles, heavy head moving up and down. </p><p>Albadas rolls his shoulders, “Might be time for me to find a new job. Heard Eos is hiring defense for research scientists on the field. I’ve always wanted to name a species after myself. Save the right white coat and my name will be in the books.” His thin mouth perks in a rare humorous smile. Chug looks ready to vomit, mouth turned so sharply in a frown, his lower canines are visible, “If you don’t stop talking like that, I’ll take you outside.” Reyes sees Lachlan approach Kian and he catches the man’s attention, indicating to his room with a simple motion of his head. Better to talk ‘business’ in private, especially with unknown danger lurking around the corners. He’s heard what he needs to down here.  </p><p>When Lachlan joins him in his room, hands full with two glasses of whiskey, he almost means his smile. “I thought you liked sweet drinks.” The door glides closed behind her and he can see her small form, and boots, dirty and steel toed. With a slow, methodical sweep of the room, dark eyes glistening in the red lights, she joins him in the seat perpendicular to his couch. </p><p>“I asked the bartender what you liked.” </p><p>He chuckles, seeing in his mind’s eye Kian’s annoyed eye roll. They clink their glasses, and she swallows without hesitation. He understands those unblinking eyes and in many ways they see him. A fraction of him. </p><p>“I wanted to thank you. You… really helped me out when you moved my stuff.” She finally says, her hands tight in her lap. Dark curls make red waves in the light, a strange, altered ocean. </p><p>“You paid me. I just did the job you asked.” </p><p>Her lips twitch into her smile again, “That’s not always easy to find. Someone who just does what they say they’ll do.” A long breath escapes her, finally her all seeing eyes closing. Something releases, and he sees himself from another place, another time, when options were slim and the cliff right off the edge of the world was one step away. “Got me out of a bad situation anyway.” She admits, voice raw and so she takes another swig of whiskey. “Now I’m… here. But,” She shrugs, a jerking motion but not one from nerves coiling rather uncoiling, coming undone from weeks of staying taught, “That’s not so bad. Maybe a new start.” </p><p>He’ll drink to those. “Have you thought of joining the Collective?” The offer is as much for his business endeavors as her well-being. If Lachlan can move orders without setting off authorities, even with a list as high risk as her last one by skills of a pilot branded equal to a Nexus paid one, then he wants her. And she clearly wants him. </p><p>“That’s why I’m here.” Her whiskey finished, she glows with inner strength. “I heard the Collective recruits people with talent. I have some people in Elaaden and I know my way around a cockpit.” </p><p>She doesn’t have to sell it too hard to him. But he can see the way she looks at him, a familiar way that has taken him before, satisfied his ego. Two shadows blending in a darkness they’ve both known. A past that likely mirrors some form of his, that’s stitched a mask he’s seen behind. They could satiate something aching, even without the details. Whiskey in his blood, a woman who wants him knowing clear and fully where he associates and where to find him, and yet a sobering coolness still permeates under his skin. A different set of eyes and a different way of smiling comes to mind and he inwardly sighs. Can’t drink whiskey without thinking of those creasing whiskey eyes, a better high than he’s had in a while. A message comes onto his omni-tool from the dock. </p><p>&gt;ALERT: SLOANE KELLY’S PERSONAL SHIP LIFTING OFF FOR BADLANDS&lt;</p><p> For the lab? Or for another reason? He shifts his focus, leaning back on the couch with an arm along the back and his glass between his fingers. “Where’d you get that uniform?” </p><p>Lachlan’s gaze flashes, “You can find plenty of things if you look in the right place.”</p><p>Good answer. “I have something I’m looking for.” He says, slow, deliberate. “On the Nexus. A pilot could get paid decent credits to be my eyes.” You can get off Kadara, see the world outside all of this again, take what you need while you’re there, eat your fill. He sips his drink. “Are you interested?”</p><p>Both corners of her mouth turn up, “Very.”</p><p>When he explains to her the vague description of the place he’s looking for, the length of the mission and the slow, methodical components necessary in order to be successful, she promises loyalty and secrecy. The datapad with information including her new identity and her mission’s foundational corners is a precious future in her hands coded so not to expose either of them. Departure won’t be until he can secure her an omni-tool better equipped for Nexus level security and she can officially find ranks within the Collective brand but they make a deal. She’ll do other runs between planets, and pay off the cost of new tools. Before this all began, he would’ve shared a night with her but right now the idea lacks excitement; he wants something else. </p><p>Instead he finishes the drink bought for him, good alcohol will never go to waste and heads up to the dock to watch Sloane’s personal ship return home. Even their queen needs clearance.  Roaring engines twice as powerful as most passing through chops the air, a blur of harsh red and black coming into the light of the dock out of the darkness. Warning lights wave her down, wind rippling uniforms loose and scatter white dust prevalent from the chalky terrain of Kadara. He watches the ship settle on the extended landing pad over the cliff side, heat steaming from hot metal to metal. Krogan guards block the stairs to the pad, bodies strong and mission clear: protect Sloane and secure her passage. </p><p>From his position with Lachlan by his side, waiting to speak with one of their Salarian transport managers in the Collective, Reyes stays out of the way but not out of sight. The door hisses open, unlatching and folding down so Sloane and Kaetus can step out. Some of the bombs from her collar are missing, a sign she’s been in battle and her boots are covered in dried brownish green, the color of Kett blood. Kaetus and her are talking, but the whirring of the engine slowing is too loud to make it out. She puts a hand to Kaetus’ shoulder, and a rare but clear smile moves around her words. </p><p>While walking down the stairs, she receives a notification. It slows her stride and an angry, vicious glower burns away any gentleness in her expression. “That son of a bitch!” She snaps, Kaetus watching her in mild silence. “That sneaky bastard!” She slams a fist hard down on the railing, bending it slightly, “Does he think I’m going to let him keep playing me under my nose?” </p><p>“What happened?” Kaetus asks. </p><p>“The Oblivion lab was attacked! Right after the Pathfinder was around here making big statements.” Her lip curls, eyes blazing as she looks over her comms. She mutters, “And Farenth was tied up like a stuck pig. Used her feet to manage a message to Malna. Fucking Hell. Am I supposed to believe that’s all coincidence?” Whirling on Kaetus he keeps a level expression and she shoulders her way past her guards, “He’s lucky he found that faction of Kett motherfuckers. Luck of the goddamn century.” Slapping her omni-tool off, she suddenly sees Reyes across the dock through the heavies and pilots and engineers. Her glare goes cold as she walks past, narrowing in her assessment. But she has nothing to say about one smuggler who rubs her the wrong way and bites, “Go have your <em>one</em> drink with them. I’ve got to handle Farenth anyway.” She waves Kaetus away, finding Krid waiting for her at the first entrance to the market. Kaetus watches her go, repressing a sigh that ticks his shoulders up slightly and then he follows. </p><p>“Hey Shena.” The Salarian Reyes has been looking for, Nelan Lobano, steps up, datapad in hand and eyes shining. “Your message said you had the perfect pilot for me?”</p><p>He puts on one of his more charming smiles, “I heard you needed someone to touch base on Eos. This is Lachlan.” She steps forward, putting out a hand to shake. Nelan gives it a smooth double bob, “You got a ship?” She goes straight to business, looking at her checklist, “Got cargo space? We got suppliers trying to move stuff as soon as yesterday.”</p><p>“Yeah, but nothing heavier than three Krogan max. She’s got to be able to maneuver.” </p><p>“Perfect.” Nelan types away, “You look the part too.” She gives Lachlan a quick glance up and down, “You wrapped up business on Port? Umi’s got a few boxes that I’d like to get to her this week.” </p><p>Lachlan’s eyes float up to Reyes and she says, “I’m quick. I can make that happen.” </p><p>“Good initiation job, I’d say. You fly safely, just you the stars and the open skies and hopefully a gift from the Charlatan when you get back. No one could hope for more.” Typing up, Nelan begins the process to get Lachlan the appropriate authorization files, her long fingers moving with practiced ease and speed. “Let me get a look at your ship.” Giving him a glance, Nelan excuses herself, “See ya around, Shena.”</p><p>Lachlan goes to follow her, and when she turns over her shoulder Reyes offers her a wink and slips through the crowd of night shifters out of sight. Old habits die hard. </p><p>Kralla’s Song is loud, boisterous and making money. Personal screens are set up to watch the Krogan arena fights for the week, loud cheering erupting at the action and large jugs of beer being passed around. Beneath the noise of the customers, Outcast, freewheeling, or Collective, is the rumble of bass, Umi’s music buzzing throughout the place. When these nights get busy enough, she sometimes pulls another Asari behind the bar to serve drinks and tonight’s help has big eyes and a quick smile. Reyes moves through, passing by the Angara space, puffing with smoke, seeing wine being poured into each other’s mouths in traditional drinking practices. At a far table, he hears a familiar set of voices and saddles up to the bar near Umi to look on while having a purpose. </p><p>“You have a tab yet to make its way into my pocket, you know.” </p><p>Before he gets a good look, his attention is pulled away to Umi who is cleaning a glass with her usual stone cold expression and low lidded eyes. She makes a transaction with several Turians, sliding them heavy shots in her usual glasses before her gaze slides back to him. </p><p>“I’m not going anywhere fast.” He says, and she rolls her eyes but pours him a finger and a half of whiskey which he lifts in thanks. Interested, he sips his drink. At the table sits Ryder, shot glass turned over to prove it empty and beside him Bain with two mirroring Ryder’s. Across is Dr. Nakamoto nursing an unexpected beer and Kaetus who has found the table just recently and is being handed his own shot. </p><p>“Join the celebration.” Bain grins, dark eyebrows smooth in his great mood. Without his heavy armor, his sense of aesthetic becomes less war mercenary and more slim legged pants and leather, his black shining boots and belt clean and sharply contrasting his draping collared shirt a flattering shade of yellow. Chains swing around his neck, several rings clear on his hand as he passes the shot. </p><p>“Thanks.” Kaetus takes it but doesn’t sit yet. </p><p>“Hopefully you can hold your liquor better than the doctor here.” Bain chuckles, arms folded on the table, large and playfully menacing. Behind their table Outcast pirates drink, drunk enough not to think anything of those around them. They stand out with their plated armor and stun guns as well as rifles locked in place, protected by Sloane’s order. All it would take is her mood to sour and a sanction to reach them…</p><p>“I’ve actually got a job to get back to after this.” Dr. Nakamoto defends, sipping carefully, “Injuries don’t take the night off.” </p><p>“I’m trying to <em>forget</em> about work.” Kaetus tosses his shot back, nicely clacking it to the table top down. “We’re going to need a few more of these.” </p><p>Peebee’s head pops up from another table where she has been playing virtual poker. “Doing another round of shots?” She’s all smiles and Ryder chuckles, “You in?” While the drink doesn’t show on her cheeks like it does with humans, the loose quality of her smile proves they’ve had their first few drinks and Reyes wonders if she becomes more or less secretive with influence. </p><p>“Gunna need a liquid handicap.” She says, an arm resting on the back of her chair, “Gotta give these guys a chance.” A chorus of protests echo from the table and she grins, shrugging nonchalantly, untouched even when a gloved hand pushes at her shoulder in fond play. </p><p>“Let me get them.” Bain says, going to stand up, broad shoulders sharp in the light by his shirt but Kaetus puts out a hand, “I got it. The Outcasts owe you after all.” </p><p>Bain slowly sits, his canines flashing, “Can’t say no to that.” He slaps his hand across Kaetus’ in casual thanks and returns to the conversation, rolling a polished round object across his knuckles and fingers. Is that a Kett bone?  </p><p>Dr. Nakamoto has his beer down and is turned to Ryder, “I… I can’t thank you enough. For what you’ve done. I made some mistakes when I got here,” He backtracks, that notoriously strong sense of right and guilt holding him, “Hell, even before I got here but I’m trying to do right. I’m going to use my work for the good of the people.” A promise easy to make, hard to keep. Reyes drinks thoughtfully, watching each person’s expression closely, keeping an eye out for Kaetus who is talking to the other bartender. </p><p>Ryder, warm in the face, reassures him, “You’re already doing good. How’s Remi holding up?” </p><p>“She was pretty dehydrated, hadn’t eaten in a few days but she’s doing better now that the shock’s worn off. Wanted to see you, probably thank you for everything.”</p><p>“I’ll make time to head down and see her.” Ryder says, expression going distant as he slips into his own mind. The line of his lips is clear in the light which thins as he thinks. He’s troubled. Something sits with him from this mission, and it’s unlikely to be guilt about trashing the Oblivion site. It manifests in pain and he squeezes his shoulder, words as sharp as the pinch in his brow, the shot clearly putting him straight into his emotions, “I wish we could’ve offered the same chance to Jon.” An Angaran name…  </p><p>Bain grips Ryder’s shoulder over top his hand to comfort him, doubling the support, “It’s not your fault this happens. You’ve done right by him and any other Angara victim to the Kett. You brought the guy home, that will mean a lot to his people.” He gives him a strong steadying pulse, shaking him, “They’ll be able to hold a proper funeral for him, little duck.” What a mood maker, saying all the right things. So he’s more than just a human as strong as a heavy. </p><p>Wryly, eyes still strangely radiant with lowered defenses, Ryder goes loose in the man’s hold and says with a raised eyebrow, “I thought we had graduated from that nickname.” But his tension is fading, and Bain chuckles, black eyes under dark eyebrows clear on the Pathfinder’s face, “I think it’s perfectly appropriate still. When you do graduate, you’ll be the proud ‘mother hen of Heleus.’” <em>And</em> he can tell jokes. </p><p>Kaetus returns, a tray for their shots balanced on one hand. Peebee leans over Ryder’s head, getting a laugh out of him, her body weight pushing him down. She sings, “Thank you!” It glides down her throat sweet like honey, and she claps the doctor on the back, “You should loosen up, have a little fun. Take a night off. I get my best ideas when I let things flow. Right, Ryder?” Her own attentiveness sparkles through, but she isn’t heavy handed and plays things off, likely how she prefers it to be done for her own painful emotions and panging conscience. </p><p>Both her and Kaetus find their seats, and he says, good naturedly, “I <em>do</em> wonder what kind of drunk you are, Ryota.” Slides one shot glass to him, taking his own. A complicated past, betrayal, extortion, blood pacts, survival, the two face each other. In the midst of an unforgiving universe, can they take the chance to rely on grudges, old fear and anger? Dr. Nakamoto stares, and he must know there is little room to slip up on the higher ground if he doesn’t secure his footing. Kaetus… his love for a woman keeps his path forward visible and the doctor can’t blame him for that. They didn’t abandon him in the badlands for walking away. </p><p>He sighs, giving in, “This is a celebration I suppose.” Grabbing it up so not to lose his moment of courage, Dr. Nakamoto throws it back, eyes pinching closed at the burn of vodka in his throat. He almost coughs, then it catches, hot and crackling and he chokes, “That stings..!” Laughter draws them all together, and clinking their own shots to the doctor, everyone tosses them back. Reyes raises his own minutely and drinks. </p><p>Nakamoto is smiling, telling stories of foolish and definitely reckless badland adventures that resulted in strange injuries, a rare but necessary relief to his usual seriously drawn brow. Acid burned holes in the backsides of suits leaving a window to reddened asscheeks, the distress call of a trembling agent wrapped around a lone tree in the field with snapping challyrion hungry for his flesh, the dizzy confusion of one smuggler having drank an expired coffee, the acidic air of Kadara causing it to have psychedelic-like effects. He even has the table playing poker’s attention and some call out, knowing the guy personally, or they add their comments around their drinks. Ryder isn’t the center of attention and it glows on his face, relaxed even a little vacant as he listens, just another one of these star crossed aliens with a need for a good laugh. Bain takes the floor, hands spreading with a recollection of their battle against Invictor and Ryder’s mocking words as well as their tactics, his slow and steady surveillance to understand the Kett’s weaknesses. </p><p>A freelancer, hair streaked with white and an eyepatch asks across both her table and his, “What’s motivating you? Sitting in the sand all those weeks alone, just to kill Kett.” Her feet are kicked up, their game on hold. Her whiskey is in her hand. </p><p>Bain rests back in his chair, arms folding, “I’ll put it plain and simple. They’re ugly. And I’m a man of aesthetics.” He has the whole table in an uproar, laughing, and someone passes him a new drink, clapping him on the shoulder, “You’re a man worthy of Kadara!” </p><p>“I don’t let anybody play God. Not those on Nexus and certainly not grotesque freaks.” He slams the empty glass on the table, “We’re making our own rules as we go. If there’s God complexes, I’ll gladly take them down a notch.” </p><p>Reyes sees Kaetus receive a notification, and thinks on that note, he might try his hand at slipping away with a certain someone as well. Typing a message, he makes contact with Ryder, watching intensely from the busy bar. There’s the chance he’ll be put off, the night prioritized, and his contact pushed to another day but the risk is worth it. To pull the Pathfinder back down into the slums, even with companions at his side and an extraordinary night of blessed freedom would be hefty proof towards his inclination. It’s the moment, the one right before the card is turned, the chips piled to gouge one’s pocket or fill it for the night, the breathlessness, all the alcohol vanishing for a quick sense of sobriety as the card becomes crisp, clearer than ever. Ryder’s face, illuminated by the orange of his omni-tool, reading, and then a brief wordless talk with SAM. Reyes knows what that looks like now. Ryder closes it down and pushes his chair out, going to stand. </p><p>Reyes is tonight’s winner. Bain stands as well, grabbing Ryder’s hand to shake it and pull him in for a half hug, pounding him on the back with his free hand. He won’t be able to escape quite yet, a celebrity amongst the faceless who demand more inspiration, more reminders of blood he’s spilled like bedtime stories for adults and that works in Reyes’ favor. He doesn’t want Bain’s sharp, sniper eye following Ryder too far on his journey. Gliding the empty glass back towards the other bartender, careful not to make contact with Umi, Reyes leaves Kralla’s Song to wait for a certain handsome someone as if he had been there the entire time. </p><p>The night has a twisted, lawless life breathing in the slums, arguing, cackling and clanging bouncing from the metal walls, throttled with the conflicting noises of music played from several different buildings. Smoke, dark and potent is a cloud of fumes low and cutting visibility, Krogan chewing thick rocks and spitting to the ground as the discuss pay for that week underneath flickering lights. Drunks call to the stars, bitterness spilling out as well as their drinks with tottering coordination. The Oblivion Den has a gaggle of guards present, guns and confusion evident. Moving around Reyes at the shoulders, several more Turians join the growing number in a hurried but controlled speed walk. </p><p>A bouncer has a human by the arm, her permanent scowl harsher than usual having to listen to the shouting and complaining of a drunk refusing to pay. The man spits at her feet, trying to yank himself free and blood spurts like a popped balloon when the Krogan punches his nose, blacking his eyes and busting a lip. He crumbles down against one of the support beams, hand falling into a stray puddle, luckily just fluids from the pipes, red streaming down his unconscious and quiet face. She claps her hands free of the nuisance and Reyes steps in through the doors of Tartarus after her, coming shoulder to shoulder with dancers. Hopefully Ryder doesn’t get sidetracked with the drunks on the streets. </p><p>The blond waitress passes him along the way, her hair braided around a smooth bun and her lipstick sparkling pink. He stops her for an order which she takes, telling him Kian has his bottle saved as one of the last unopened of the night. His room is cool, lacking the heat of people but before obtaining his privacy, he does notice Albadas sauntering into a doorway down the hall with one of the human dancers, Cassandra Verner, her tight, brown braided hair and gold grill distinct even in the shadows of the upper rooms. She’s infamous for her idolization of Sloane, likely a reason for Albadas picking her for the private dance. If things go to shit, maybe Sloane’ll go easy on him when she sees Cassandra. Noticeably drunk but smart thinking. </p><p>With a dull chime, the first request for entrance is the waitress, her clear platform heels filled with sloshing pink liquid loud on the floor. She places the tray, which includes a datapad with a list of requests from Kian, and unlocks the bottle with one of their demagnetizing devices to deter theft. She throws him her signature wink, hips rocking back and forth on her way out, skirt perfectly adjusted to entice the eye. The drink pours with a smoky accent, smoldering red and hot on his lips. </p><p>Time sits down next to him, and reminds him of the flavor of anticipation. </p><p>Behind the peace of the room, the chime rings. The second request is the Pathfinder, still out of his armor even with the dangers of Kadara waiting in the shadows. Although many are drinking… and the rest of them are having a little issue with their economy. His step has life to it, and the dark hooded sweatshirt hugs him across the chest. He drops the hood, letting the door close behind him. Parallels of this super soldier working beneath him come to mind, that renowned shotgun the Charlatan’s guard and law and Ryder another shadow, waiting for his orders in this den of a secret throne room. </p><p>“You could get hurt dressed like that, Pathfinder.” Reyes greets, triumphantly watching Ryder find his usual seat, the high color on his cheeks indication of his good time and his passage here. He doesn’t acknowledge the possibility, but seems right where he intends to be, gaze hot on Reyes’ face, “Everything alright? You didn’t call me down here to lecture me on danger, did you?” His words have the slightest blur, but he’s got his head. The irony of Reyes telling Ryder about danger is not lost on either of them. Things unsaid become a magnetic pull, their knees close to touching. “Has there been more murders?” Straight into business, even if they both use that as an excuse. </p><p>“Nothing so morbid.” Reyes absolves the concern with ease, “Shall I pour?”</p><p>A sheepish grin takes over Ryder’s face and he gives the whiskey an extended glance, “I’ve had a few already actually…” His tolerance is becoming more abundant, relatively average but he’s a good natured drinker likely even when past the point of no return. Reyes knows where he’s been and who he’s been with and exactly how much he’s had. He’d like him at least a drink past that. </p><p> “I think you’ll appreciate this.” Reyes gives his glass an inch of liquid, enjoying how unmistakable the focus is on him, how well he’s redirected the moment from Kralla’s Song. “This is actually a…” He mulls over how to put it, “Personal favor that I’d like to ask you about.” The air, subtle, floats with the faint scent of Ryder’s hygiene, and it strikes lightening to memories intense, a thrill easily relived and still just as desired. Clean, simple, like sheets on a sunny day. It is sure to linger, a fragile reminder and something sensitive to feelings. </p><p>“You’re a needy guy, Reyes.” Ryder says, obviously joking and when he returns his gaze to him, he feels the shift in the mood, how the Pathfinder reacts under his total attention. A slow, amused smile pulls his lips, “Stop being useful, Ryder, and I’ll stop bugging you.” He likes how that expands in Ryder’s eyes, pupils distinct on him and they both chuckle, hyper aware of the attraction between them, and their understanding of how they’re having conversations under conversations. Ryder wanted to see him, he can feel that. And Reyes won’t be stopping anytime soon. </p><p>After they both drink, Ryder says, “Give me the details.” </p><p>Reyes chooses his words carefully, “A business rival- Zia Cordier- lifted cargo I was moving for a client.” </p><p>Ryder is rolling the lid of the whiskey back and forth, listening. He waits a beat then says, “You want my help getting it back.”</p><p>As usual, you catch on fast, Ryder. And there’s nothing wrong with feeding that ego, “We worked so well together on the Roekaar job,” He praises, “I thought you’d be willing.” The final word lilts, as if the aid was already expected and he sees it sits just right on Ryder’s conscience. Asking for the favor here, shameless and very much himself, he reaffirms that confession Ryder gave him, the concept of being a team and merely it’s him this time in need of a little assistance. The blood alcohol content just happens to correlate with the request. </p><p>He can tell Ryder is contemplating it, “What did she steal?” </p><p>“No idea.” Reyes answers, honest and edging on nonchalance, “Client paid extra for privacy.” The truth sometimes plays just as good a cover as anything. “Considering my fees, it must be valuable.” He offers, and sees Ryder arch an eyebrow, smile still intact but weighed with bemusement, “You didn’t check?” </p><p>“Honor’s got a price. And the client paid it.” </p><p>Drinking this in fully as well as some whiskey, Ryder asks, “How’d this rival of yours get ahold of your cargo?” His walls are down, and more than anything they feel like equals here, men with different tool boxes but at the same work site. Curiosity is unchained, politically reigned politeness taking a backseat. These dark Kadara waters are Reyes’ home and Ryder is dipping his foot right in. Come out a little further… </p><p>Tossing a hand as if to sweep her away, Reyes says, “Her usual tactics,” He feigns low level exasperation but beneath it is barely concealed apathy towards the details of Zia’s person, “Got my middleman drunk and got on his ship.” The excitements, the barely contained disorder of the everyday, he can see it shine alien in Ryder’s eye. </p><p>Teeth flashing, a playful grin spreading, Ryder says, elbows to his knees as he leans into the conversation, “Sounds like you know from experience.” And Reyes leans in as well, voice going husky between them, “Please.” He acts as though offended, “I keep to a three drink maximum when I’m on the job.” They’re in kissing distance, and Ryder purposefully tears his gaze away, giving Reyes a much needed moment to admire the curve of his lips, smooth, a pretty color beneath the lights. Those hazel eyes fly back, the seconds elongating, and he ticks forward ever so slightly, “Looks like you’ve got two more to go.” It sinks down deep, an almost painful flood of arousal pitting in his organs. He misses one second, taken off guard by how good Ryder keeps up despite his lack of obvious cynicism and suspicion. </p><p>Impressed, Reyes insists, “You are completely outside of that rule.” And he means that, which is not the first time the Pathfinder has pulled genuine lines from him. </p><p>Ryder’s eyes crinkle, “So you’re telling me I get more than three.” </p><p>A message pings and Reyes promises, spine and stomach hot, “However many you think you can handle. Better yet,” Their hands are a mere finger from touching, “Get creative, Ryder.” He glances to his omni-tool and sees it’s from Kian. </p><p>&gt;Sloane is in the slums! Wrecking complete havoc at the Oblivion den, mad as a rabid fiend. She’s looking for Albadas. I give her till midnight to catch him.&lt; </p><p>Looking up, he sees an opportunity, “Want to go see the fruits of your labor, the fall of the Oblivion den?” </p><p>“For legal purposes, I can neither confirm nor deny involvement.” And then his eyes slide up, “SAM, what were we up to today?” </p><p>“We were defeating Kett and upon request, I am to say we were nowhere near the lab, Pathfinder.”</p><p>“Ah,” A disappointed sigh escapes him, Ryder’s expression clouding, “Still gotta work on those white lies, SAM. Or maybe we should act like we don’t even know about the lab. Would that be easier?”</p><p>SAM doesn’t pause. “You’ve already informed Sloane your knowledge of both the drug and the lab. I suggest you avoid this option in the possibility of it backfiring.” </p><p>“Point taken.” Ryder clinks his glass to Reyes’, eyes sparkling and says, “Show me the way. Finally, something I get to be the audience to.” He swallows whiskey like a man in a desert with water, thirsty for that comfortable space of mindless existence and he’s inviting Reyes in. </p><p>“I have the perfect spot.” Reyes follows suite, secretly counting the drink. Number three, right on time to break old rules. He grabs the bottle, “Follow me.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Labels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kadara gets a much needed reason for merry making, although some are looking for opportunity for more devilish activities.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just about halfway there! Thank you so much to the comments and kudos!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sloane’s wrath continues to beat down on the Port, a storm brewing deep and heavy and unrelenting after the first drop of rain. For Grayson’s filing mistake which almost cost Tamayo Remi her organs and her life, he’ll bear the scars and quite a bit of pain before they finalize, face bruised and eye black, one arm tightly wrapped to his chest. He’s grateful to still have his head, shaved partially on one side by need of stitches but his lackadaisical, careless attitude lost its way back from the brutal meeting with Sloane, replaced by an almost neurotic attention to detail. He keeps his job, his grimace clear as he stands on the landing pads checking new comers and their protection fees, trying to type with his crippled hand. Whether by his choice to expose the trafficking rings to Ryder, or by relying on the Pathfinder instead of Sloane, there’s rumors settling beneath the surface, leaving an after taste about power harassment. </p>
<p>Albadas managed to escape, likely slipping onto a merchandising ship by excuse of ‘assigned protection,’ Cassandra providing just the right amount of coverage with her private dance. Reyes wonders if dreams come true and the guy’s made it to Eos to make his name. Cassandra’s probably livid, and Kian’s having a go around with her, that whiplash personality of hers bull like when frustrated. Hopefully she doesn’t break any of their more expensive bottles. And Farenth… she paid for the failure of the den the most. Her imprisonment is a statement, a reason not to disappoint Sloane. The dark, moist and poorly ventilated cells supply no light, no warmth and little company, all prisoners separated to prevent relay of any sort of information, even simple conversation. What state she is in, or her the length of the sentencing hasn’t broken through the information barriers, defenses highly guarded. </p>
<p>And word of Zip and the other Collective agents who had tried to take the Oblivion formula? Goggles and an earring are all that’s left, the only spy to survive having pulled them from their bodies killed by clean shot to the forehead before he came back by foot, exhausted and far less blinded by credits than when he had left. There’s one sniper Reyes Vidal can think of who would have been at the lab at the same time to come in contact with them. He’s sure the lab is vacant now, and all fallen men have either been scavenged or cleaned up by Outcast raiders sent to dispose of any other evidence. Sloane covering for her economy? Or simply leaving nothing to chance?</p>
<p>She dispatches the Nomad, causing a ripple of interest, sprinkled with confusion and quite a few questions. It travels up the chain, like a game of telephone and soon the Pathfinder has joined her in the slums, two sources of extreme power standing before one another, the waves to a beach, the winds to a mountain. The sun gleams in over the wall from the badlands and hits just right on Ryder’s high cheeks, Sloane standing before him cloaked in shadow, Krid and Chug behind her, expressions as ravenous as hungry hounds waiting for unleashing. Peebee, Vetra and Cora stand close, truly mirroring the warlord and her bodyguards. She has her hands to her hips, eyes hard, unblinking. </p>
<p>Ryder breaks the silence after examining the situation, “You’ve deployed the Nomad.” He states, the question sitting right beneath. Keema watches on from a tall walkway, local Angara moving about her towards the low hanging launch pads. Her recon ability is top notch and feeding through to Reyes, busy behind the walls of the market in the Charlatan’s layer of acquisitions, financing Collective weapons. </p>
<p>“Astute levels of perception, Pathfinder.” She replies, giving the wall guards the OK to open the gates. Gravel sharp beneath her boots, she approaches, and jerks her chin up at Ryder, Outcast pirates settling in to watch along the stairs and against the metal walls of the low level buildings, vultures to a possible kill, “I think it’s about time you earn your right to be on Kadara.” </p>
<p>“I already pay your fees.” </p>
<p>She rolls her head, acknowledging him minimally and Krid snaps his large teeth in a menacing threat over her shoulder to Peebee who merely glowers, brows coming down. The tension rises. Guards watch on from the Warden’s doorway, guns idle but in hand. “You wouldn’t be allowed in the Port without that.” Sloane taps the Initiative emblem on his armor, significantly smaller than the one on his assigned chest plate back in the days when he was establishing Prodromos but still visible. Likely Tann won’t allow team Pathfinder the funds without the label. “I shouldn’t even let you hostiles dock; I know you’re here to establish control whether you’re ignorant of that or not. Addison and Tann may pretend they don’t know how far your leash goes but you’re still wearing the collar.” Another pointed tap to the emblem, “You’ve fucked with too much and given me too little.” </p>
<p>Chug cracks his knuckles in a barrage of harsh snaps, rolling his weight back and forth. “Maybe it’s time for the Pathfinder to put his credits where his mouth is.” Reyes zooms in to his screen, is that a busted lip he’s sporting? Drinking with Albadas expectedly put him in the line of fire, and here he is desperate to put someone else in the spotlight, thirsty for guilty blood. His Kett bone accented armored hood has a new spike, possibly an acquisition from cleaning up the caves Sloane and Ryder took care of. </p>
<p>“I’m not granting access to anyone associated with the Tempest to dock, leave or enter anywhere until you do me some favors.” Sloane announces, Krid’s grin devilishly long and mocking, so Peebee gives him the finger disguised as an itch to the nose. “Fix the vault, Pathfinder, or you’re going to find the badlands are a lot less easy to manage three days in with no clean water.” A flagrant, glaring threat, “And you’re already suited up, so I think now’s a time as good as any.” She shifts, turning a shoulder to show off the Nomad already parked and ready for departure. Bold as ever, Sloane’s strong arming technique presents as hard to maneuver out from under even if you’re the Pathfinder, maybe especially if you’re the Pathfinder. </p>
<p>“All this, to make sure I fix the vault?” He finally asks, likely after a long calming breath. </p>
<p>“Just a little motivation to remind you of your purpose.” The anger typical to their interactions has mellowed, transformed by their fighting side by side but it still has its usual sting, venomous, “You might want to get moving, I heard a certain Krogan is looking for permission to land on the dock and I believe I’m going to have to turn him away.” Lip curved cruelly, Sloane challenges him again, both her bodyguards letting out heavy laughs, turning to booming mangled noises against the far walls of the slums. Cora’s expression is cold, even disgusted. </p>
<p>“Do you have some other pressing business to attend to, princess? Or should I lay down the red carpet?” </p>
<p>Her mocking finally takes its toll and Ryder sighs, moving around her, “Okay, okay, I’m going.” His endurance is unwavering, but if anything this will likely have Outcast pirates’ egos inflating, creating a dangerous ticking time bomb for those more prone to violence. If the Port warlord can pin the Pathfinder, what’s stopping any of them? Sloane is aware of this, aware of the atmosphere and the lack of restrictions she’s given her soldiers for their loyalty, and watches on, prideful for out maneuvering the Initiative. In her books, this is at least her second win against a source of authority ready to blindside her, and a necessary game of chicken. </p>
<p>Ryder steps out of listening range, the wall dividing the slums from the badlands bouncing most electronic currents for protection. Keema returns to her duties, still in the process of sending Jon back to Aya for a proper burial, always listening on the side. But Reyes is not without the Pathfinder for too long, a call coming through on his omni-tool. Quick to prevent tracking of his position, he steps through several doors, and into an elevator, leading into a back corridor with a hidden keycode to open a secret panel back into the curving alleyways behind the marketplace.  </p>
<p>“Ryder.” Reyes answers, aware of the purpose for the call but pleased by its immediateness. </p>
<p>“Reyes.” Ryder says, behind him is the noise of badlands’ plumes of steam rushing endlessly towards the atmosphere and the Nomad’s engine. “I know we’ve got the details to that favor you asked me to go over, but I’m going to need a raincheck.” There’s some clinking and then a wave of background silence before Peebee’s voice feeds in. </p>
<p>“I’m driving this time! Ryder! You hear me?” </p>
<p>Vetra calls shotgun and Ryder settles down in the back with Cora while Reyes says, “Pathfinder duties call?” </p>
<p>“How’d you know?” He responds dryly. Cora is telling Peebee the coordinates of the first monolith, getting told smartly, “I don’t think I could miss it, it’s literally the biggest thing in sight.” The door glides shut, wind flushing the speaker because of the air lock. </p>
<p>“Call it intuition.” Reyes says, “I have a few leads I’ll follow up. Find me when you’re finished. And Ryder?”</p>
<p>“Hm?” </p>
<p>“I’ll be waiting.” </p>
<p>Keri’s journalism team has yet to touch down on Kadara, Sloane preventing many channels that feed through the Nexus to be officially recognized despite them being regularly played in public spaces. Toleration of stolen channels and information brokers doesn’t mean she wants digestible fodder for the masses still living comfortably between clean, nicely pressed sheets and privilege sniffing for credits and stories in her port. She’ll be damned to watch a montage of Outcast enforcers beating the people into submission with her face twisted evilly throughout the cut like a bad political commercial bought by Tann’s blood money. But that doesn’t prevent Keri from making contact, asking for Pathfinder footage for a cut tempting enough for any hungry person’s stomach to squeeze about. </p>
<p>Low flying ships aren’t abnormal in the skies, Outlaws still making credits by bringing back salvage from the badlands and selling it on the outreaching launch pad sitting just over the defenses of the Warden’s walls. Angara used this pad for fueling and for watching the night skies as their sisters and brothers took off from the main dock back into the stars so it holds a neutrality even Outcasts can’t deny. So several ships taking flight as well as compact, crudely crafted armored vehicles requesting the gates open is expected and welcome. Anything to rotate the perspective. </p>
<p>It’s been some time since Reyes has virtually observed Ryder and dare he say, he almost misses the personal touch of voyeurism he gains through it, knowing well that the Pathfinder assumes he’ll be watched no matter what he does. The days when Keri’s channel was one of the biggest banks of Pathfinder tape, her classic Pathfinder thumbs up shot when he infiltrated the largest Kett station on Eos literally making its way onto posters, and clips of those discussing political implications often, are now of the past. She’s walked the line well, keeping tabs on Tann and Ryder as well as Eos but her focus on environmental safety and wildlife called her attention more than anything and most of her recent work has been about safe deep earth drilling. The timing of this request is either conveniently unextraordinary or she’s looking to funnel money back towards safe practices in Prodromos as the outpost continues to grow. </p>
<p>But Reyes Vidal doesn’t have to take from another’s plate. Instead, he slips back into the audio feed on the Nomad’s communication systems, listening as he tallies Collective headpieces used for scouting, assessing the number for appropriate recruiting, to take the places of lost agents. </p>
<p>Cora’s speaking to Vetra, voice clear, steady, weighted like iron. “You’re familiar with Kadara practices.” Reyes’ lips curves in a knowing smile as he boxes and crates the month’s rations for newcomers, proud of the bottles of juiced oranges, fresh, sweet and cool in their refrigerated cases. How far these small delights have come since he began his work. Cora’s condescension comes with an estimate of reasonable unconscious privilege, her reliance on authority and rules stemming from someone who benefited from the system that enforced them. There’s an underlying edge, less than confrontation but more than simple curiosity. </p>
<p>“I am.” Vetra doesn’t hide; she answers easily to the contest of her character. “I’ve lived this life quite a few years.” Not all gradients blend on the Tempest after all. Opinions on the day’s coffee beans, from Aya, from Nexus provisions, provides little barrier to disagreements on the definition of criminal and moral righteousness. Anything to help one sleep at night, Reyes thirsts for Ryder to speak up and reveal just how much of his military training has taken hold of his sympathies. </p>
<p>Vetra dares Cora to voice her real opinions, “You sound like you don’t like that.” </p>
<p>The vehicle rocks, tires crunching over brittle rock, mountains arching above, enormous, jagged shark’s teeth. Reyes can see the road behind his eyes, a strangely familiar path, like a dream that holds an emotion neighboring nostalgia for home. </p>
<p>“It’s not that.” Cora doesn’t shy or flare up. She’s spent more time amongst a varied group of people than ever with the Pathfinder. Would Alec Ryder have taken on so many team members? Her voice warms, like metal going bright and moldable when heated, “I just don’t want to lose you.” </p>
<p>Peebee makes a small noise, likely one of a growing smile. Ryder’s silent in the backseat. “I don’t want someone like Sloane or Reyes to convince you of something better here.” Bold, as meaningful as a confession. Military grade honesty, one that doesn’t come often, one that’s as good as blood between family. Cora’s said little of either the Collective or Sloane although just by her facials one can tell she doesn’t respect bullying. She senses Reyes’ influence, although they’ve yet to meet. He appreciates she’s aware, proving either she’s grown alongside her team and she’s developed a sense of her teammates and the world around her or she’s allowed herself to question the definition of a good soldier, expanding her concept of loyalty. </p>
<p>Vetra’s voice, that sharp, asari sword voice, smooths, even lilts with released tension, “You don’t have to worry about that, Harper. I’m here for the long run.” </p>
<p>Pathfinder inspired devotion. The universe prayed and received a team of wildly different brands blending into the perfect level of chaos to challenge sadism disguised as cult religion grinding down all variations for conformity in the worst way. There’s a painting waiting to be made about this all. Chopping above head catches everyone’s attention and Peebee announces, “We’re going to have company at the monolith.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s voice travels up to the front of the Nomad, “Outlaws.” </p>
<p>Good credit buys better, riskier angles and if Keri’s credits are silver from the mines then the auction’s money is platinum. She’ll get her tape but not before it spreads across Kadara, sideless no face hacker’s pockets endless as the black of space and packing a harder punch. Kadara will stand for nothing being class driven; if one sees it, they’ll all see it. They’ve tasted erratic profit off Nexus hierarchy and don’t plan to allow anything more than the strongest of the pack to sequester anything worthy. The benefit of the Charlatan is they stand not as a lord but as a force. Anyone has the power to be them so anyone is worth the challenge. Evens the playing grounds. Sloane is just pack leader for the time being. Earn respect or have your arm torn off for food. </p>
<p>A swooping streaming angle from the open door of a Collective miniature passenger ship catches sight of the Nomad parked outside the closest monolith to their civilization and zooms in, widening the camera lens to capture the fight going on beneath the tower of ancient technology. Outlaw vehicles have swarmed the grainy soil, filling in along the spaces unblocked by rising remnant structures. Their suits are usually a dull, irony red, splashed with symbols and drawn figures like skulls are tallies to imply a body count. Night vision capable goggles with thick black glass protects their eyes from not only being taken off guard by nocturnal wildlife but also the clouds of steaming sulfur bursting from the ground randomly, easily irritating the vulnerable parts of the body. Beneath their masks, they talk in brief code so other Outlaw groups can’t infiltrate or mangle their structure. </p>
<p>“Oh, man! We beat everyone here!” The camera woman gushes, “We’re going to get the best shots! Bring us down a little closer!” </p>
<p>It dips down, gliding smooth as a bird on a kind wind and team Pathfinder becomes clear, each detail crisp, this agent knowing the highest bidder is going to like to see each fleck of blood. Ryder’s got his fist curled deep into the vulnerable division between one Outlaw’s chest plate and face covering, shotgun pressed firmly to the man’s gut. The blast ripples, partially muffled being point blank, simultaneously exploding blood, the splatter of guts audible, and Ryder tosses him down, holstering the shotgun with ease. Two long strides later, he vaults into the air from the edge of the monolith raised platform. Gleaming with jump jet released energy, he draws his knees in, form compact, and flies down towards a hidden sniper, stepping out of their crouch at his approach. They’re slow to respond, knee catching from behind a low rising remnant wall and Ryder pounds a fist heavy with gravity to their jaw, knocking the gun from their hands and crumpling their stance. He doesn’t hesitate, bending low and skewering them on his energy sword, momentum and strength lifting their sizzling body from the ground with a guttural shout of pain and shock. </p>
<p>When their body sinks down to his fist, glaring orangeish red hotter than fire completely exiting from the back of their suit, Ryder yanks free a pistol from their own belt, putting them out of their misery. He spins suddenly, and takes one wide step to the left, arm rounding to toss a grenade far across the distance to an escaping car. It sticks, the vehicle swerving, unbalanced and smoke wafts thick and almost black from the explosion, rolling the four wheeler onto its side, catching fire. Cora’s purple biotic power lifts a raider from the passenger side door, limbs stiff with altered their mass and Vetra’s sharp eye puts a bullet through his skull. Ryder props the sniper gun on the remnant wall, settling down and takes aim. The body behind him lays still steaming, forgotten. </p>
<p>His shot knocks the brains out of a far side sniper and he reloads, scanning the grounds. Either Ryder’s been keeping his complete skill set secret or someone’s been teaching him. Another shot, another approaching body from behind the corner of a monolith tower fallen in battle. The rifle is tossed aside, and Ryder straightens up. Zero mistakes, nothing able to escape his all-seeing vision, unstoppable. There’s something aggressive, unforgiving beneath the surface, like this something is usually shackled but is breaking free, clawing through its restraints. The limit is in sight, and Reyes has a thousand questions for what might be the cause. Has the frustration welled up to such a point, anger is beginning to take hold? Or is this a preview of a super soldier’s potential, everything up to this point merely a fraction of its true power? Does Knight actually have a reason to be fearful of the AI fused person? </p>
<p>The ship lifts higher, getting one final sweeping shot of Peebee stepping from the Nomad to discuss the monolith with Ryder. Vetra and Cora can be seen searching the leftover vehicles before the stream ends, and the credit auction begins for the file. Useful for a whole range of reasons, whether it be to analyze the Pathfinder for weaknesses, or to snip clips to sell for Initiative based promotion sites. </p>
<p>An entire year of either poisonous, chemically toxic water or high priced imported liquids from sellers aware Kadara can do nothing but find a way to afford it, and now, real time, the Port is seeing what Eos saw, raw hope. It stings, it’s not pure, and it has its catches. The proof, the clean, breathable atmosphere, the growing natural bodies of water on Eos are a clear sign that the vaults can be reactivated, that these planets are not soulless burning hells to punish their escapist fantasies. But how can they trust? What is there to believe in other than results? They know the Pathfinder can purge invaders, that he is as much born from a need for violence as for miracles but who’s to say he is here to give one to Kadara? </p>
<p>Beneath the surface, bellowing out of the planet’s very core, a moan sings across all the mountains, deep into each cave, and settles upon the Port and into the slums with a reverberation that tingles into the feet up to the fingertips. People step from their dwellings, out of the bars in awe. The world is rumbling, the kindest earthquake to measure an awakening. Angara begin to pray, wrapping their arms around one another to a sensation felt by their ancestors. Light beams across the land from the highest point of the monolith, so blue it is almost white in the middle, the very indication of fresh resources and the Pathfinder’s magic touch. A never ending shooting star, the monolith rings, chiming, and glows along it’s black surface ribbed with lines. Even Outcast pirates watch on in amazement, all aware of just how many days, how many missions were spent trying to access any remnant technology and how futile every effort has been. The heart aches, chest tight with appreciation that not even the most cynical can avoid washing over them. Anyone ready to draw blood from Ryder will likely think twice; if the ease in which he kills Outlaws doesn’t deter foolish victory chasers then this will settle that debate. Who can go against someone with the power to revive entire planets? </p>
<p>Reyes Vidal watches on from a special rooftop. A place he uses to escape, to think. Ryder does what he says he will. Wind rushes up from the badlands, a memory floating on it, their first meeting and how he watched the Pathfinder look out into the badlands, seeing what only he could see. Maybe Reyes can see it now too. </p>
<p>The next activation is only hours apart, local Angara calling in to tell of the well timed assistance from team Pathfinder as they defended the monolith from scavengers. Celebratory flights rush through the clouds, Angara calling to the stars as they toast to the lights of the remnant structures. Everyone has heard of the process but to see it? Even those who have departure times delay their flight path, Dalton having no choice but to excuse the massive shift in his usually organized time schedule. Other freewheeling spies get their hands on video, trying to get a good look at exactly how the Pathfinder manages to work ancient technology but mostly the files are Ryder shaking hands with the Angara protectors and him handling more Outlaws. The most impressive of them is him taking down a Hydra by himself, dodging bullets by mere millimeters, fearless, rushing fire giving him a backdrop of red and orange making a strangely violent and yet mesmerizing picture. His footwork has improved, his focus sharp. His first move is taking out a leg to prevent its pursuit and then, thighs spread to straddle the rear side, he spins up one arm and punches through the back, ripping free cords, a modern predator degutting its prey. Flipping down, shotgun angled just right, he kneels and shoots through the hole, imploding the machine, folding it into itself and making Reyes’ blood hot under his skin. Can anything defeat the Pathfinder? Ryder could take on the whole world at this point, him and SAM untouchable. </p>
<p> The final monolith coming online sends Sloane and Kaetus back into the badlands, the coordinates of the vault revealed by the converging location of the beams. Collective members take note of the navpoint, because opportunity never sleeps and it’s all they can do. Krid guards the gates to the badlands, keeping pirates from rushing to the vault to make a profit off whatever they can get their hands on, the Warden agreeing to shut the doors until Sloane returns. Anyone still out from streaming has the freedom to explore the newly risen structure, pictures flooding the comms, some including the Nomad parked and dark outside. Ryder and his companions must be inside. </p>
<p>The sun is setting on the horizon, gleaming through the dips of the mountains when the Pathfinder emerges from the vault, walking up the ramp from the cool darkness with Cora by his side and Vetra and Peebee following in conversation. Sloane waits, arms folded with Kaetus at her shoulder. Wind from around the planet flushes the air, sweeter than ever before, rushing across the building tops where a smuggler sits in wait, watching things unfold. </p>
<p>Sloane and Ryder look at one another, like the past and future meeting together in the present. Her year tells of horrors unforgettable, before exiles knew they were going to survive rioting, and of darkness that’s tainted her heart from it all. His year is about resuscitating old dreams, believing in change and taking steps towards that far horizon they were promised. </p>
<p>“You’ve kept your word, Pathfinder.” She says, the engine of her ship rumbling behind her, still running. With Ryder’s helmet on, it’s impossible to read his expression, “Any restrictions I’ve placed will be lifted.” She’s well aware that she had needed him to breathe this very specific life back into Kadara, and now that he’s proven even this planet with all the shadow and ugliness can taste fresh she can’t deny his usefulness, “I’ll remember this.” </p>
<p>Ryder’s hands by his side unclench and he replies, “It’ll take time for the vault to begin running at full capacity. But Eos and Voeld saw improvement immediately.” </p>
<p>“Don’t you worry; we’ll be sure to take measurements.” She steps back onto the ramp to her ship, its glistening red body painting everything a shade of crimson, “Accountability is your trademark, isn’t it?” She grins, all teeth as it lifts higher and higher, her grip on the grab handle just inside the door keeping her steady as she looks down on him, stance wide with confidence. The door slowly closes, and it takes off back towards the Port the camera paneling back to Ryder who is shaking his head minutely, speaking lowly to Peebee and Cora who has her arms folded loosely. </p>
<p>Celebration is in store for the people of Kadara, and soon calls are being made up and down, excitement contagious, Angara flooding the market and coming up from the slums, those working in the plumbing rife with praise for the Pathfinder.</p>
<p>“The water is clean with just one cycle through the purifier! Doshi Ge says the water speaks once again! It is whispering to us! Stars and skies light our ways!” </p>
<p>“Soon we will be able to stand in the rain! Tonight we speak of the Pathfinder! Tonight we drink to him!” </p>
<p>Umi has the slightest smile on her face, the first in hundreds of years. She cleans her glasses with a new found appreciation for the oncoming night and her extra bartender smiles alongside next to her, chin in her hands and eyes shining. The tables will be full tonight, and the profits grand but even better yet, the world is changing and towards vitality. Orange evening skies glow with health instead of rage, ripe and gorgeous like fruit. </p>
<p>When the Nomad returns to the wall into the slums, the Warden greets Ryder with a smile fit for a king, big arms coming around him when he steps down out of his vehicle. </p>
<p>“Kid!” He grunts out, and around them are the flushed faces of pleased slum dwellers, many Angara and many not. “You’ve brought Kadara a great service! Tonight we drink and not because we got nothing better to do!” Ryder’s hardened expression opens, eyes shining and a smile finds his face. </p>
<p>The crowds are unbelievable, people flooding out into the hopeful streets that the market begins selling drinks and foods out of stalls instead of weapons and tools. It almost looks like a mirror of the past Port, a place of culture and friendship. This is tonight’s mood; they are filled with the good vibrations from the vault and the ideals of tomorrow. The Charlatan even offers private caches of whiskey, willing to be a part of festivity. Keeping one’s name beside a good word will always prove beneficial and Reyes Vidal thinks they all deserve a shot of something quality. Walking the streets, he sees Drack coming into the masses partying amongst themselves, whether they mean to embrace the good or just the evening and he accepts a beer from several heavies who just recently moved from Elaaden, green eyes aglow by the free drink. Portable Krogran grills are slow roasting varren meat, a rich, beefy smell rising from the high in iron protein and fruits brought from Aya are being sold in beautiful arranged cups. </p>
<p> Reyes weaves through the throngs of people, plenty drunk and laughter rampant. Everything is in the moment and this moment is not cruel or heart wrenching. A perfect time to lay down seeds for the Collective but first he wants to set his eyes on important players. Jaal is talking in a group of Angara who are sharing their long pipes for tobacco and explaining in relishing detail of their maps at the front of Kralla’s Song. By the bar, talking with Thrasia (an unexpected presence) is Vetra and Cora, all three enjoying a couple of shots and the Turian’s drawl, her natural charm and intrigue with others making her a great conversationalist. She has her mouth angled in a natural smile, almond eyes relaxed and inviting. If she is here, then the wind farm is doing better thanks to the activation of the vault. He moves to avoid being seen, sure she will stop him if her gaze finds him. Instead he finds his way towards the back of the bar and sees Peebee, Liam and Ryder drinking victoriously with the Warden and Bain, a drunken gaiety causing their laughter to be frequent and their familiarity to be informal, the turmoil overcome creating quick friendships. And oh, Ryder looks good. Reyes blinks, pausing. He hasn’t even had his first cheers to the new world but he thinks this is it, gazing on tossled hair and heated cheeks with eyes glazed prettily. The dichotomy hits just right, with all other Pathfinders out of commission Ryder might just be the universe’s most powerful soldier, but here sits a handsome young man looking like he has not a care in the world. It excites Reyes down to his bones, the stress that was building up seems to have tapered off again, and he might even say Ryder looks harmless knowing damn well it’s not true. </p>
<p>“Shena.” </p>
<p>Eyes full of happiness are looking at him, two universes in wondrous symmetry. Keema is holding drinks, and she offers him one, with a cheeky smile that he’s never seen so joyful, “From the Charlatan for all your work and more.” Amused, he takes it, sees it is in fact Collective whiskey, and smiles to the ding of their glasses. They drink deeply, standing in perfect harmony, completely invisible in the crowd and still totally involved in the wonderful atmosphere. Fire in his belly ready for more kindling, whiskey making each vein liquid heat, the warmth of others around them settles on his shoulders and they slip into a spot at a wall with an extendable shelf to place drinks. </p>
<p>“Do you remember the first time we spoke of the Pathfinder?” Keema muses, safe to be nostalgic with the results so positive and her people rejoicing to something that will cost them nothing and still bring wealth. Security, the fall of drug dens, water becoming another simple commodity they will all enjoy. How many moons they have spent fearful in the dark, finding solace in things painful just to feel. </p>
<p>Reyes remembers it well, he won’t forget it. “Of course.” </p>
<p>She looks across the mingling of aliens, humans and Angara, Krogan and Asari, Salarian and Turian, and shows an affection she’s kept special for her own people. “I thought him just another tactic by the Nexus to take advantage. But he has clarity. Kadara has become more and more a tavetaan. And he costs not a credit.” She smirks, sipping her drink. Thought flashes behind her eyes, and she murmurs, “Annea may have to find a new line of work at this rate.” </p>
<p>Reyes sees this possibility in the future, the chances high. “She is a woman of business, something new will call to her.” </p>
<p>“Or she will need to compromise.” </p>
<p>“Annea?” He raises his eyebrows, “Unless you know something I don’t about her, I think it highly unlikely.” </p>
<p>Her eyes hood, a cat-like slyness, “She is very convincible in certain settings.” </p>
<p>“No me jodas, Keema!” He lets out a rare surprised laugh, “How long you’ve been holding out to confirm this with me.” </p>
<p>She feigns innocence, turning her head away ever so slightly, “I thought you knew.” The small bridge of her nose moves ever so slightly with her smile. </p>
<p>“Information is only as good as its source.” </p>
<p>“I wanted to wait until I knew for sure you were sleeping with the Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>“Ay dios! Lower your voice. I have enemies.” </p>
<p>“Think of what they might do to you.” </p>
<p>He acknowledges this with a tilt of his head, “Keeps me up at night.” Even if this were true, and he’s slept very well since falling into bed with Ryder, he won’t stop. Over her shoulder he can see the Warden ordering beers with one large hand, pointing to Ryder who is putting one up to cancel his, saying he’s had enough but smiling all the same, eyes crinkling at Peebee who is pointing to herself with a thumb. The way the yellow light hits the space gives it a sociable glow and Liam has an arm resting on the back of his chair, counting the Warden’s mugs which are taking up most of their table. Just above the noise, their position just close enough to listen in (thanks to Keema) Reyes hears Liam say, “If anyone can throw down a beer to make the Warden sweat, it’s going to be Peebee.” </p>
<p>“Flattery <em>will</em> get you somewhere, Liam. Never forget that.” She replies, as the bar sends them the beers by help of several newly recruited Asari, who collect the empty drinks with ease and slide new foaming mugs onto the surface. </p>
<p>The Warden is grinning, slightly crooked along the bottom, an expression with history, and grunts, “I’m a tough one to knock over. I may be old and I might be slow, but I’m steady.” He has the table laughing and he grabs one beer, sliding another to Peebee who catches it by the handle. Another is passed to Ryder who gives it a look, becoming increasingly aware he might not escape. Liam has talked his way out of the situation, still nursing a drink and Bain grabs one, speaking low enough to Ryder that he can’t be heard. </p>
<p>Peebee kicks back her chair, purple lips bright, “If I finish before you, you gotta pay for the drinks.” </p>
<p>That grin sharpens, eyes folding in interest and the Krogan rumbles, “Deal.” </p>
<p>Bain grabs both Ryder’s and his own beer out of reflex as Peebee’s boot slams onto the table, shaking it as she steps up, beer in hand and challenge ready. “Who’s counting down?”</p>
<p>“I got you.” Liam speaks up, and around them attention is catching as fast as a wild fire. Credits are being thrown about in bets, Peebee looking as fine as a poster selling the beer brand. She raises it to everyone and a wave of noise erupts, Liam booming, “Three,” The Warden lifts his mug, “Two,” Peebee rolls her shoulders, “One!” They both lift the glass and soon Liam has his fist pumping, his drink in play, cheering her name. </p>
<p>“Peebee! Peebee!” </p>
<p>Others join in, her stance wide, the seconds ticking by, tension rising. The Warden is halfway through, but Peebee is a quick, her beer bubbling once then gliding down, and she snatches the win at the last second, inciting a roar of approval. She shows off the empty glass, wiping her upper lip, and the Warden lets out a bellowing laugh, more entertained than he’s been since he arrived on Kadara. </p>
<p>“I win!” She exclaims, jumping down on solid legs. She wasn’t kidding about being able to handle ryncol if team Pathfinder ever got their hands on some. Dropping back into her chair, Peebee bumps her fist against the Warden’s armored shoulder, “Thanks buddy! Don’t mind if I order another.” </p>
<p>“Never seen an Asari drink like you.” He comments, proud and tosses back the final inch of his. </p>
<p>“Never met an Asari like me.” She corrects, resting back and points to Ryder, “You’re next. You’ve even got moral support there.” Her eyes flick to Bain who shrugs non committedly, but is clearly going to try his hand at drinking the beer, arms folded on the table.</p>
<p>“I don’t think I’d be able to walk out of here if I do.” Ryder says, and Liam, who is collecting payment from the table behind, taking a cut in the split moment betting, bends back around and says, “I think the universe can handle itself for one night without a Pathfinder.” With a quick hand he flashes the number to Peebee who gives a slight nod in acknowledgement, self-satisfied. </p>
<p>“It’s my last night on Kadara, I think it’d be good to go out with a bang.” Bain agrees, Ryder turning to him with a crease between his brows. “Don’t look at me like that, little duck. We’ve handled the Kett here and I’ve made my money. I’ve got a new ship ready to take down those bastards hiding along the asteroid belts between the worlds. Gotta stay busy.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been researching into kidnappings that happen in transit between planets. It’s a job needed done.” Liam says, “The Kett have entire fleets dedicated to protecting war prisoners. My Angara contact, Verand, tracks these usually slow moving groups to understand their routes.” </p>
<p>Bain clicks from the side of his mouth, flashing a hand gun, “Exactly. We all got jobs, Ryder. And tonight yours is to finish that beer Peebee so nicely got for you.”</p>
<p>“He’s got a point.” She chuckles, that chuckle turning to a laugh when the Warden says, “I’d hate to see <em>my</em> credits go to waste for it.” </p>
<p>Ryder lets out a genuine laugh, stunned but impressed. He’s got a hollow argument, well aware his company will take good care of him if the beer puts him under. His too long seconds of silence seals the deal and he gets a round of shoulder slaps, encouraging as well as teasing. </p>
<p>Reyes’ gaze moves across the bar, eyes stopping on someone familiar over his shoulder. Knight and several of her partner Firefighters are sitting on a lowered couch, the mellow but positive pleasure on their faces clear. Nobody will be named a threat tonight, safety provided by the distraction of jubilation.  She sees him, the energy of recognition alerting her and she smiles so warmly, it gives him half a thought to go to her, glancing back to Ryder who will definitely be caught up for the rest of the night as he himself drinks down a jug of beer, throat so pretty and eyelashes speckled with droplets. The Warden lands a heavy hand of approval on his shoulder, his body teetering and the Warden, pleased, praises him, “That’s how a Krogan finishes up a long day!” </p>
<p>A large presence steps up to the table, Drack grinning from ear to figurative ear, joining, “Who said to start without me?” He nudges Liam to the next chair almost knocking him over and takes his drink, earning a cry and he flags down a waitress. “What’s this, Kosta, water?” </p>
<p>“It’s a <em>whiskey</em>.” </p>
<p>Drack crunches the ice, provided by yours truly, the shadow king, and says, “Time for shots. We’re getting wasted or the night ain’t over.” He acknowledges the Warden across the table, “Morda’s got a message for you.”  </p>
<p>Keema tastes the final sweet drops of her drink and says, “Someone is inviting you over.” </p>
<p>Reyes wishes it were Ryder so he could hear what drunken confessions he might make breathing in such a palpable and celebrated victory, but he knows he can’t get close. Knight beckons him with her eyes and Reyes concedes; a talk won’t hurt, he is interested in how they’ve been cloaking an entire building from SAM. Ryder is deliciously past the place of no return, him and Peebee’s arms loosely around each other, Liam’s voice bleeding through as he calls the Tempest.</p>
<p>“Suvi! You and Kal get down here. Tell Gil. You gotta have at least one drink, the view of the night sky from here is amazing and Drack is back…”</p>
<p>Leaving Keema to her own business, Reyes slides into the Firefighters’ booth in a nice, semi-private corner just below the railing for the stairs. He greets Knight who can’t hide her pleasure, offering him some wine they’ve been keeping for a special occasion. Red, like passion. He takes a stemmed glass and cheers with her associates, a Turian, a Salarian and several humans. But they appropriately mind their distance, leaving Knight to her own affairs. </p>
<p>Playing the gentleman, he asks after her son first, illuminating her eyes and she touches their legs together for the softest of intimacies. It doesn’t quite spark the nerves like another person’s thigh but it’s a pleasant distraction. They speak, enjoying their glass and he learns of their recent electronic cloaking barriers. Isabel Halsey’s voice cuts through from above, her shit eating grin big and loose, a drink past drunk and going straight to hammered as she tells stories about the flophouse and the loads of credits she’s heard of in buried Nexus weapons in the badlands. Some things never change… he settles in. </p>
<p>The night carries on like a pretty note, waning and rising, people coming and going. From the far side the Pathfinder team stands, Suvi, Kal and Gil all having joined the party to enjoy several drinking games, Vetra and Cora sliding in after the first round. Peebee is stronger than Reyes gave her credit for, the Asari still standing although she may be swaying but Ryder is out for the count. Drack’s got an arm around him, basically keeping him on his feet and Bain’s saying his goodbyes, shaking hands with those he’s fought beside and appropriately greeting those from the Tempest that he knows by proximity. He gives the old Krogan a maneuvered fist bump and then ruffles Ryder’s hair, taking his leave from Kralla’s Song. </p>
<p>Knight and her company have left, the bar filled now with the late comers or those looking to drink until they can’t anymore. Drack helps Ryder back towards the Tempest, the crew following, Gil helping Liam who found himself pile driven right at the end of their last card game by the very engineer, Kadara learned tricks finding hard to perform too many drinks in. </p>
<p>Reyes hopes Ryder will get in some water before he goes to sleep but he looks forward to seeing him tomorrow, disappearing in order to leave rations in appropriate places while everyone’s drunk off the Pathfinder’s successes. </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>It’s late morning when Reyes gets a message from Ryder, notifying him of his availability. He can just see the hangovers and strong coffee rampant on the Tempest, smiling into his omni-tool. Just like the old hanger days. They agree to meet at Kralla’s Song, Reyes arriving first, patrons slimmer than usual, some just now slipping back to their shadowed hideaways to sleep the day away. Leaning casually onto the bar counter, boot resting atop the other, Reyes earns a deadpan stare from Umi as she comes from around the back corner two large handles in her hands. He can see it, she thinks it too early for him. </p>
<p>He hears Ryder before he sees him, “Don’t have too much fun.” He says in full jest, Drack responding gravelly, “It’s early. The best cure for a hangover is hair of the dog after all.” He takes Umi’s attention first, approaching from the far side to get a drink, and she narrows her eyes along the smuggler before attending him. </p>
<p>“You look like you’re waiting for someone.” Voice a little rough around the edges, someone who’s had a long night from the day before, Ryder greets him, running a thrill up his spine. The smell of a clean shirt, faint cologne which will catch in the mind from this point onward and a test of his memory, alighting all his thoughts. </p>
<p>“That’s my line.” He responds, masking the twitch of his lips, opening up his stance to allow Ryder to settle next to him, each action a conversation between them. They make eye contact, the law of attraction making it so heavy that only Umi’s interruption ripples the focus, her groan of disgust genuine. </p>
<p>“Do you want a drink or a room?” She snaps, both palms flat and heavy on the bar. She’s watched Reyes seduce countless others here at her very counter and he can see she doesn’t find this time any less irritating. There are eyes on him from a back table, he can feel them, they’ve been on him since he walked in. If there’s ever a better time to flash his association with the Pathfinder, it’s now. </p>
<p>“Information, actually.” </p>
<p>She sneers, settling back and folding her arms. Her languages consist of paying due credit on time and minding one’s own business and both are quite the opposite from Reyes Vidal. “That’ll cost you more than a round of drinks.” The threat beneath is not hidden. He has a tab to pay and that day is today if he wants anything from her. </p>
<p>“My..” They make eye contact again, Ryder’s hazel eyes focused on him, letting him steer the conversation, “Friend’s good for it.” The word gives as much depth as any other, potent with their history. Not quite a lie and not the full truth, Reyes’ favorite line to walk. He knows Umi does not usually allow him to merely pay for intelligence found in her bar because of its terms as a neutral space and that his reputation proceeds him but she can’t deny his loophole with the Pathfinder present. Her mature golden flecked eyes drift off the Collective to the Initiative for confirmation. </p>
<p>“Put it on my tab.” Ryder validates its truth and Reyes can’t help but gloat briefly, “See?” </p>
<p>With another roll of her eyes, she turns away to start the transaction, omni-tool opening with a small beep. </p>
<p>Ryder leans ever so slightly into him, “I’ll expect a favor in return.” He says, looking up from under his eyelashes, voice deceptively light. Right under the radar, Reyes internally applauds the Pathfinder’s timing. And he smiles for it, admitting, even blatantly confessing, “You’re the one person I’ll happily owe something.”</p>
<p>It sits well between them, both having something worth offering. That he knows he has something only he can offer Ryder, even something that can’t be bought with credits. But it doesn’t sit well with Umi who objects to being an audience by another groan, warning them.  </p>
<p>Credits secured, she relents to being an open door. Arms folded in her typical stone cold stance, she sighs, “What do you want to know?” Behind them sits those eyes, burning on Reyes’ back. He gives no reaction, hyper aware this informant knows why he is here. </p>
<p>“Zia Cordier. She been around here recently?”</p>
<p>Umi’s head turns ever so slightly, and then she says frankly, “You mean your ex?” It’s less of an attack than a fact posed as a question. She never invests enough into anything other than her own personal to get thoroughly involved but she likes transparency. Reyes’ heart is in his throat, knowing well she means to publicly provide the fullest picture in the least amount of words, “Yeah, she was here.” </p>
<p>The air around them cools, Ryder straightening up beside him. “Ex? As in, girlfriend?” He can’t help that that same heart skips a beat, hearing a rare unpolished reaction. The ever thoughtful Pathfinder, involuntarily revealing his first reflex, being taken off guard. What is SAM saying?</p>
<p>He gives it a second so not to come off rushed to deny it and says, “Girlfriend is such a strong word. We had drinks occasionally.” Then to clarify, “I drink with a lot people. Anyway, she was here?” He deliberately avoids Ryder’s gaze, focused on keeping his body language neutral, holding his shoulders down, his fingers lax. </p>
<p>Umi’s examining the the ribs of her gloves, rubbing a spot from one of her fingers, “Yeah. Met with a Salarian. Shifty guy I’d never seen before.” Plenty of those, although Reyes is thankful to hear a descriptor of him. She looks up, “Maybe it was the Charlatan.” It’s not even gossip, simply a comment that Umi would make, having little care for the politics. She’s spent years watching people play games of power and keeps a tall wall for anyone to earn her respect. The Collective leader is just another player.  </p>
<p>Even if it’s a mild insult to the man’s work, Reyes shrugs, agreeable, “Anything’s possible.” If he stays on these calm waters, he may get even more information, “You overhear their conversation?” He asks slowly, hoping not to annoy Umi out of further details. </p>
<p>Ryder is quiet beside him, but he’s straight backed, listening. “They were planning to meet someone at Spirit’s Ledge.” Umi provides, then hears a Turian call for a whiskey on the rocks, looking in his direction so Reyes thanks her. </p>
<p>She snorts, waving them both away, “Whatever. You didn’t hear it from me.” </p>
<p>Light, yellow, whiteish filters in, creating rectangles of sun on the floor. Glasses clink, a far table person stands up. Carefully, tone managed, Reyes offers, “If you check the meeting spot, I’ll follow the Collective lead. Doubt Zia was meeting with the Charlatan, but you never know.” He looks into Ryder’s face finally and it punches through him, searing like his energy blade he watched the Pathfinder thrust through that Outlaw. </p>
<p>Nose crinkling beneath drawn brows, eyes accusatory, and how hot Ryder looks, burning under indignation, “Is this job about getting your cargo back, or one upping an ex?” If through everything, the Pathfinder manages to find his peace, and restrain himself when the entire universe treats him like paid help, but here he’s incapable of finding that cool middle ground, that speaks greatly to his partiality. Not even potentially finding the shadow king offered on a silver platter distracts him from a personal objection to the situation. </p>
<p>If he wasn’t extremely flattered, he might be insulted Ryder is so quick to assume he’s such a sly person. But maybe he likes that it doesn’t turn him away, that he can see it and it doesn’t flash freeze him straight through, “Why, Ryder, are you jealous?” The words coil no matter how much he tries to police them, exhilarated he has this much effect on the man of the century. </p>
<p>“Just answer the question.” </p>
<p>He can’t help but laugh because everything’s been about Ryder since they met. But he won’t say that. He’ll merely enjoy the space they have together, relishing his moment in this sunlight. Laughter tapering off, he assures him, “It’s about the cargo.” Then he quickly writes a note on his omni-tool, aware he might be able to access a security tape to see who exactly had been watching him earlier if he’s quick enough, “I’ll work my contacts. Give me a call when you get to the meeting spot.” And he revels in the fact that Ryder is still going to offer his assistance, that fierce glower indicative of suspicion with Reyes’ true motivations but trust bleeding through anyway, creating conflict. Ryder sighs, reigning it in, glancing to Reyes with eyes that scorch, “I’ll do that.” He turns from the bar, taking the stairs, magnetic, keeping Reyes’ eyes the whole way. </p>
<p>When he finally has enough mind about him, Reyes glances to the spot where he felt the gaze from earlier. It’s an empty table but there is a glass sitting on the surface. He checks the angle and slips away, wondering what kind of passcodes Umi uses for her security cameras. </p>
<p>He gets updates for Ryder’s locations, brief but helpful. In the Nomad with his teammates Drack and Vetra, who are both intricately tied into the Kadara economy, they travel out to Spirit’s Ledge, a high terrain cliff where Outlaws wait in the valleys to pick off amateur ships if they don’t have the proper cloaking to land and the mountain peaks threaten to take a wing from anyone not paying enough attention. It’s a high risk, high reward spot, the remains of scavenged cargo that has either been stolen and taken to the ledge for safe dismantling before hurried onto the next seller or sold there on the spot to avoid identification littering the ground. With the right codes, camouflaged walls and places to leave datapads to other potential buyers can be accessed, if the secrecy is necessary. </p>
<p>It isn’t difficult for SAM to uncover the underhanded tricks and techniques, the false rock doors and disguised consoles for passwords child’s play. Drack is chuckling when Ryder calls him, his voice clear in the background, “Sneaky bastards!” </p>
<p>“Reyes, I found a datapad with a navpoint.” Ryder tells him, giving him a video feed so he can see the codename at the bottom so not to confuse buyers between deals. He’s used Spirit’s Ledge before for Charlatan business, and he knows this cavern well. It’s Zia’s signature, Ryder’s hands holding the datapad at an angle so he can see the full message. </p>
<p>“Must be where Zia’s hiding the cargo.” He’s sitting at his console in the slums, feeling the same ominous cold at the base of his spine that something isn’t quite adding up. If Zia really is merely selling his cargo, for the datapad to sit here this long with simply another navpoint leaves her vulnerable to those looking for a quick and easy target. Usually this is the place for drop offs. Has the datapad just recently been placed? But he doesn’t want to set off any false alarms and adds, “Probably left that behind for the buyer.” </p>
<p>Ryder is just as skeptical and he flicks the camera off, pocketing the datapad, “Why not just tell the buyer directly?” His inquiry has validity, questions beneath, why not sell the cargo immediately? Why create the diversion?</p>
<p>“Frequencies can be hacked.” Reyes explains, thankful it’s not him out on Spirit’s Ledge checking for his own cargo, even if for now it is merely instinct telling him this. “Dead drops are considered safe- especially for a big sale. Sloane takes a cut from all official sales in Kadara. Have to get creative if you want to get around that.”</p>
<p>Drack comments, “Definitely got some artists on Kadara.” </p>
<p>Ryder’s footsteps can be heard. “Did you find anything on your end?”</p>
<p>Reyes pulls up the files on the Salarian Umi had mentioned. The same Salarian who had been monitoring him in the bar. Another freewheeling hacker with not a lot to his name, easily just a cover up in his information or a newly escaped Nexile exile. “The Salarian is a fence. No direct connection to the Collective.” He watches again the tape from the bar, blurry with distance but unmistakable details clear. Dark grey suit, a drink that is left untouched, and a message at the most telling point- Ryder straightening up at the disclosure of Zia’s relationship with Reyes. If this were just him after his profit… “My guess is Zia met him to find potential buyers.” It’s still possible that Zia is just covering her tracks until she can make the most credit off his loss. “Let’s follow up those coordinates.” He turns off the consoles, standing up, “I’ll meet you there.” </p>
<p>Finally, he knows where Zia’s badland safe house is. It’s one that’s rented between smugglers, a fixed rate to allow cargo to pass through and be sold up in the mountains in the perfect dip to hide movement. She doesn’t own it, but most smugglers don’t own anything too permanent. Reyes parks his bike behind a large boulder, plenty of massive rocks littering the area like fallen meteorites to take cover behind. Assessing the situation, he sees nothing out of the ordinary, easily too normal for comfort.  </p>
<p>A shuttle is waiting beside the safe house, engine running, maroon and black paint faded with usage and time. As if either someone has just recently arrived or a transaction is currently happening. He cloaks himself, slipping up towards the front entrance and finds the door unlocked. For the buyer? Or for someone else?</p>
<p>Old cargo bins and metal boxes line up the inside without much thought for organization. Take what you want if you need it, and get out. The silence is deafening, his nerves tight. There’s an upper floor with doors lining the wall but Reyes doubts anything is up there but rooms with minimal decoration for tired travelers to rest between stops. The hanger and the place where larger freight can be held, leading out to the garage exit are in the next room over but he knows his client’s cargo is nothing that big. Searching along the identification codes, he finally finds the one with Zia’s number and below it, his client’s, one number off. </p>
<p>The door unlocks and gets his attention, Ryder, Vetra and Drack walking in and he breathes. </p>
<p>“There you are.” He calls them over, Vetra commenting, “You’re fast getting up here, Vidal.” </p>
<p>He smiles carefully, seeing Ryder suited up, glancing about the room. “Help me get this open.” No need to reveal he does have the ability to decode any and most locks if he can rely on SAM to take down the firewalls. Ryder bends down next to him, Vetra and Drack discussing one of the barred cages off to the side, pressed against the wall. The cargo hisses, unlocking and sealed air rushes out. The lid unlatches, coming up about an inch and Ryder stands as he lifts it fully open. They both look inside, and then to each other. </p>
<p>“It’s… empty.” Reyes states, and Ryder thoughtfully examines the box again. “What if this was all some elaborate setup to get you here?” He lets the box close, and begins to scan it, Reyes finally understanding his persistent uncertainty about the situation since the cargo had gone missing, “There was never any cargo to begin with.”</p>
<p>“Bravo.” A voice calls, the front door sliding closed, Zia walking inside, fully dressed in her armor, guns clear on her hip and her back holster. She has everyone’s attention, a lone smuggler with a lot on the line facing the Pathfinder and two of his teammates, “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.” Her eyes narrow on him but she gives each person a glance, sizing them up, aware the risk has gone both ways now. Her fiery hair gleams from the tinted windows, a smear of light coming in from the upper floors. Boots clacking harshly on the metal floors, she stops before them. </p>
<p>“Zia.” Reyes says, impressed with her dedication to sabotage.  </p>
<p>Lip curling up in an aggressive sneer, she bites, “You could never resist a big payout.” Outside the door sounds the echo of footsteps and Drack cracks his neck slowly. </p>
<p>So she was planning on gunning him down in this very room. He wonders what would have become of his body if he had been as fearlessly hell-bent on making that transaction as she hoped. But now he merely gets to gloat in the evened odds, “What can I say, I’m a greedy man.” Any insult to his character is as redundant as expecting to get a fair chance at first shot when picking a fight. If she thinks it will cut him after this performance, she is in denial of their similarities. Or she is scornful of his ability to outsmart her no matter the tactics. </p>
<p>“That’s why you don’t have any allies.” She begins to circle, slow and timed steps, utilizing each and every second to say her piece. “You’re selfish.” </p>
<p>Before he can drawl out a comeback, willing to accept such a label, no issue in finding solace in selfishness, Ryder steps forward, coming to his defense, “Reyes is a better man than you think.” The words are steadfast, said as surely as truth, his shoulders a stable line and his back a good place to stand behind. The Pathfinder, a leader, a man putting himself at the dangerous frontlines of an intergalactic war and before this very smuggler without issue. A declaration that fits a mantra to live by. </p>
<p>This stops Zia in her tracks, her expression twisting in loathsome astonishment. The whites of her eyes become clear, a cruel, angry smile tearing through her face, “Oh honey,” She chastises him like a child before an adult, “You’ve no idea how wrong you are.” Her expressions cools, aware now of their relationship, chilling till it’s dangerously cold, heartless even, “But you will.”</p>
<p>Frustration splashes across his insides like a wave against the rocky shores during a storm, everyone aware that the intimidation technique is a clear threat on Ryder’s life. “Leave him out of this.” Reyes demands, heating her eyes, a predator waiting in the dark for the right words. </p>
<p>“You must really like this one, Reyes.” She laughs, the sound vicious, almost victorious. She’s been looking for a weakness, one crack to jab at his real emotion since the job he snatched out from under her and she has it. Turning back to circle the opposite direction, a lioness proudly assessing prey she’s ready to feast on, she snarls, “I’ll enjoy ripping him to pieces in front of you.” </p>
<p>Her grip on his anger doesn’t loosen, and his voice harshens, “Cut the shit, what’s this really about?” </p>
<p>Lips smoothing from their hungry grin, both of them aware while she has her personal stakes in sending him to hell herself, there is more to this situation to allow this level of elaboration. “You’ve been taking all the good jobs in Kadara. It’s gotten more than <em>my</em> attention.” </p>
<p>“So what?” He half chuckles, mocking her and anyone else who thinks playing fairly is the way to make cliental on Kadara of all places, “The local smuggling union got together and decided to take me down?” </p>
<p>She looks down her nose at him, “Something like that.” </p>
<p>She wasn’t kidding when she said he might regret fucking people over, “Ah,” He rubs an oncoming headache at his forehead, “Shit.”</p>
<p>Booming, “Move in!” Zia draws her gun, the front door flying open, waiting smugglers armed and ready for ambush. Ryder’s shields shoot up with a rush beside Reyes, covering him as he yanks out his pistol, aiming for Zia, the queen bee of the operation but catching only the corner of a crate as she slips back out of his field of vision. </p>
<p>Ryder calls out orders, tossing a grenade over the highest crate to take down several sharp shooters hiding at the doorway and smoke out any still waiting for a second wave. Without hesitation, he jabs an elbow into an oncoming Turian, knocking her head back, and he whirls her own rifle on her, shooting through her armor and knocking her to the ground. A concussive shot throws a smuggler Reyes vaguely remembers outbidding and he cries out, back knocking a metal beam, Ryder taking the momentum and distraction to jump jet over and shot gun through the man’s chest. Vetra kneels by a kill, avoiding the blood pooling, and she calls a warning as a raider leaps from the upper floor to drop down on Drack. </p>
<p>The Krogan folds forward, pulling the man and his knife over his shoulder with a move fit for a wrestling performance. The knife clatters uselessly to the floor, skittering underneath a raised set of boxes and Drack shots the man dead without issue. A shot whizzes by, Zia and several hidden agents taking aim and Reyes finds his own cover, breathing. Having put two men down simply by pistol and good shot, he thinks his chances high and reveals his position, arm outstretched and across the bloodied floor, him and Zia make eye contact. Her eyes widen minutely before a shot catches through her shoulder and another in the forehead, jerking her back in a bloodied heap, her comrades stepping over her for chance to kill the infamous Shena, aka Reyes Vidal. But from around Reyes’ shoulder comes Ryder, shield flying up to protect him and rifle ready to rip through all three of them. </p>
<p>Ryder rises from his half crouch, eyes deglazing, like light returning to their color and he asks, “Are you alright?” </p>
<p>Danger gone, all questions finding their answers, Reyes feels the tingling finish of adrenaline in his fingertips still buzzing nicely, “I knew I wasn’t popular, but I never thought the other smugglers would team up against me.” Looking across the battlefield, he takes in the scene, reminding himself what desperation can lead to and slips his pistol back away, musing, “Kind of flattering, actually.” He hasn’t gotten to personally claim the Charlatan’s victories, and knowing no matter his codename, no matter what face he puts out, he still becomes relevant, jealously and desire rampant about him, leaves a sense of triumph. Shadows can have names too. </p>
<p>Ryder is not concerned with picking apart the wreckage, insisting, “They might try again.” </p>
<p>He turns to him, having flipped over a man with his boot to see his face. Ryder is staring at him, serious, and he chuckles, welcoming Ryder’s considerations for his life, “You worried about me?” He says playfully, earning a warning, “Reyes.” Which has his guts clenching so hot he can’t help but glance up to those rooms above head and wonder if one of the beds is big enough for both of them. Ryder catches him looking, eyebrow lowering in wonder and as he gives it a quick scan, Reyes says smoothly, “Relax.” Their eyes glide back to one another and Ryder can see it, the arousal, and his pupils dilate, “It’s harder to kill a man who knows you’re gunning for him.” He means the words in more than one way, and the air thickens between them, Ryder swallowing minutely. Just another fraction of distance…</p>
<p>Drack’s laughter bursts into the conversation from across the room and he says, “Vetra! Come look! Someone’s selling <em>those</em> parts! How much do you think they cost?”</p>
<p>Vetra sighs, but fondly says, “How old are you again?” And approaches anyway. </p>
<p>The mood eases, gentles almost, and Reyes sighs, remembering the pay grade of Zia’s fake mission is going to fall through. “All that effort and no credits to show for it.” He runs his hand across the back of his neck, thinking of the cuts he will have to make for the month to make ends meet. </p>
<p>They walk towards the entrance together, Ryder reassuring him, “Not everything has to be about credits.” It’s soft, genuine, like his gaze, which has now seen just how easily things can turn belly up on Kadara. Zia’s body is on the other side of two stacked metal freights, her boots as well as a hand from one of the other smugglers just barely visible, blood shining in a puddle. The defenses necessary not to be killed by a misinterpretation (or a crippling understanding) of loyalties, he can see now how important labels can be, or the lack thereof. </p>
<p>“That’s true.” Reyes concedes, finding that more and more true the longer they live in the year of the Pathfinder. He comes a step closer, “What you said back there…” And maybe it’s the way Ryder is looking at him, and the way the tension, hot and intense has become so tender, that he feels both seen and redefined. Ryder waits, blinking gently, “About me being a better man?” His lowered gaze rises, “Thank you.” </p>
<p>Ryder smiles ever so slightly, honest, “You’re welcome.” They share a long look, both of them resolute in the emotions exposed today for one another, anger and jealousy, concern and protectiveness. That maybe a label is becoming of them… </p>
<p>Drack comes booming up, “By the way Ryder, I forgot to tell you in the midst of everything, Morda’s wanting to see you back on Elaaden.” </p>
<p>Ryder turns, and he asks, “Does she need my help?”</p>
<p>“Yep, looking for some favors. Says it comes with the benefits. Sooner than later is preferred.” </p>
<p>Ryder glances back to Reyes, that longing look material for a late night spent in private but Reyes excuses himself, knowing his boundaries, very aware of Vetra’s attention clearly on him, “I should clean up this mess. Zia was a piece of work, but… it feels wrong to leave her out in the open.” He watches as Drack and Vetra move around him out towards the Nomad, and Ryder represses a sigh, still breathing heavily from his nose, even looking slightly disappointed. Soothingly, Reyes sends him off, “Go on, I’ll take care of this.” The message between the lines, <em>and you take care of yourself too.</em> Careful not to touch with his teammates right there, Reyes lets Ryder go, joining the discussion about their trip to Elaaden and leaving Reyes facing his past as the future walks on into the burning sunlight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The First Raindrop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Flophouse welcomes war and Morda will gladly give it to them.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Blood on his gloves, clinging to his boots, Reyes calls in some assistance as he lines the bodies up, checking ID and association. No one from the Collective thankfully, he would hate to take out his own people, but still a loss of some capable smugglers. Zia’s face is deceptively peaceful, although the blood splatter and bullet wound draw the eye. He smooths her red hair back from her face, crouching down at her side. A history between them gone as quick as lightning, memories for him to carry on. He checks her credits, honored by the price she paid for the game of deception, a final word to his presence in her scope. Enough left to pay for a decent send off, and to mark a space grave. Her red lipstick is still as clean as always, a pair of lips he’s never kissed. Leaning down, ever so softly he brushes his own to hers and says his goodbyes. Her sacrifice, the malicious hatred that fed into their pack of wolves speaks compliments to his work, and she gave her life for him in her own way. Plus, she took out a chunk of the competition unwilling to work with him and for that he sees all the silver linings. </p>
<p>A truck pulls up outside, heavy wheels turning and dusting up its path with a long winding hose wrapped along the side. Reyes waits outside, resting back against the wall of the structure, lifting a hand in casual greeting to the driver who returns it. The man steps out, toothpick between his teeth and head shaved with a tattoo winding up from his neck out of his armor and jumpsuit beneath. Black ink, a dragon, jaw stretched around his ear, Alejandro approaches. </p>
<p>“Keeping busy I see.” </p>
<p>“The devil finds work for idle hands.” </p>
<p>Alejandro flicks the minty toothpick and indicates with his chin to inside, “How many bodies?” </p>
<p>“Twelve.” </p>
<p>“All by yourself, Vidal?” The man’s grin stretches, flashing a gold tooth at the canine, “Don’t blame me for thinking that even the best shot would have trouble.” His dark brown eyes shine in interest, a man with a love for stories, “You’ve got the credits for it though.” He opens the door, stepping inside, Reyes right behind.</p>
<p>“I had a little help. I’m supplementing the cost but they’re paying their way.” </p>
<p>Examining the situation, Alejandro rubs his chin, confirming the fallen and the clean-up, walking along the crates and cargo bins. “Should be finished up before the sun starts setting. Oh.” Kneeling, he notices Zia and says, “I think I know her.” He looks over his shoulder to Reyes, “She liked to drink at Kralla’s. Had a wicked tongue.” Eyes narrow on Reyes but he refuses to make any comment that will incriminate his relationship with her and keeps a steady poker face so they move along, the job more important than gossip. </p>
<p>“Mostly smugglers, huh.” Alejandro zips up a body bag around a Turian who had the unlucky opportunity to meet Nakmor Drack, breaker of necks and smasher of courage. He locks the bag, a precaution against organ theft and slides to the next body, a man, late forties, played a lot of online chess for money and quick to give Reyes the stink eye. </p>
<p>“We had a falling out. Entirely personal.” </p>
<p>“If you don’t play nice, you can’t make friends, Vidal.” Alejandro smirks as they make eye contact across the bodies, Reyes zipping up from the other end and while they chuckle, Reyes responds, “I’m plenty nice. To the right people.”</p>
<p>He sees something that catches his eye and he pulls up a human’s ID again, seeing an Asari word he remembers from somewhere else, ‘yakshi.’ Night winds… If they aren’t Collective and certainly aren’t Outcast there is another growing faction if freewheeling feels too exposed. With the deepening rift between the two largest forces on Port, smaller groups have begun looking for opportunities. He closes the bag and mentally places a reminder to reach out to Thrasia, mask his curiosity with a friendly exchange of parts the Wind Farm will likely need. The name couldn’t be a coincidence after all. </p>
<p>Bodies loaded into the truck and cargo room sprayed down as well as their boots, the two men pick up Reyes’ bike and begin the drive home, latin pop playing low underneath their conversation. A rosary hangs in the back rearview mirror, clicking nicely against the fortified glass and several datapads with loaded magazines sit along the dash. </p>
<p>“She tells me The Paradise pays better for dancers. If you make it into the underground club at least.” Alejandro uses both hands to take a long wind in the road, heavy wheels bumping along the uneven dirt. </p>
<p>Reyes has his boots up, flipping through Nexus run material on one datapad, looking for anything of interest, “Annea is strict about members and anyone would pay extra for a cold drink after a long day on the surface.”</p>
<p>Whistling, the Hispanic man uses his thumb to point to the sky, “There goes the Tempest. She’s gorgeous. What I wouldn’t pay to give that girl a test run.” </p>
<p>Clouds run pretty as painted streaks on a canvas, delicate and blended to the tint of the sky which no longer burns like hell fire, softened like creamer to coffee. White fire glides through the atmosphere following the gleaming body of Ryder’s ship, free for take-off and a bittersweet sight, powerful and reverberating. It dips, coming down low for momentum, swerving cleanly to break free of the gravitational pull of the planet and shoots out for the stars with impeccable aim. </p>
<p>“They’ve got a good pilot on deck, huh.” </p>
<p>Reyes glances back to the rosary and thinks a brief prayer, before returning to his datapad, humming in agreement.</p>
<p> When all the bodies are sent away, signed for and the payment is handed to the Salarian who creates nameplates for the lost and gone, Reyes finds a moment to breathe. Instead of heading back to shadowed rooms with messages waiting on various secret men with their hands in many figurative cookie pots and the bright, vivid memories of a cargo space stained in sacrifice, he walks up along the landing pads and to the still unoccupied space where the Tempest had been sitting. He follows the rails, looking across a sky that speaks of new promises in an old world and basks in the heat of the fading sun. </p>
<p>Wind catches up from below, small carrier ships moving their loads to their assigned slots with voices calling out over the sounds of machinery to indicate availability and order. Dalton’s people are fast workers, quick to maintain organization or have their paycheck cut because of all the haggling and fresh faces ready to work their games. Likely the man is taking a break, usually having a smoke and a conversation, however brief, with Umi before the nighttime loads begin rolling in. Pulling free the now crinkled pack of cigarettes, Reyes sees he only has a few more, classic for a crutch. </p>
<p>One between his lips, he lights it, slipping the lighter back into the box and sucks hard, waiting for it to sting. Choosing rather to stay oblivious for now instead of obvious, questions laying in wait for everyone involved in the afternoon drama. Vetra and Drack’s opinions about foiling smugglers’ plots for revenge on Pathfinder time are a good topic to start with. He’s sure there’s little remorse lost on the mercenary’s point of view; if you shoot at me, I’ll shoot right back but Vetra is another story. The nuance is important to her, fine lines in the sand that go deep beneath the surface, determined through observation. Strong arming opponents, brute strength, violence in response to aggression all have their places but Vetra’s tactical as much as she’s a good shot. Did she benefit from this situation somehow, in a way Reyes can’t see yet? Or is it merely she is meticulous about having her teammates’ backs? Was it to watch him, intentions straightforward, clear?</p>
<p>The ash floats off the edge, crumbling like a meteor, and a message pings on his omni-tool. Alejandro thanking him for the service and a receipt of billing all coded for discretion. Sun fading, light turning to purples and blues that bleed into darker and darker space, the night comes, respectful of schedule as time presses forward. Strange how easily the world moves on when just a day ago, along this very port walked a woman with millions of seconds to her clock and a thousand thoughts and feelings running behind her sharp eyes, capable of changing destinies with her very hands. </p>
<p>Gripping a fist over the expanse of land across the plains and mountains, Reyes appreciates his quick fingers. Time isn’t moving on without him yet. And to keep it that way, he doesn’t mind carrying a few ghosts himself, intimately aware of another man who bears weight in a similar fashion. Is he still angry or did the danger mellow that smoldering offense? He’s become deceptively sentimental, the final crackle of his cigarette hitting just right. </p>
<p>He will need to thank Vetra and Drack, a little thought and a tiny seed to grow in the right direction against the winds of situation. For the mercenary, the conveniently acquired lead into the stolen Nexus weapons buried in the badlands, some danger and the possibility of a couple new toys will prove enough for the Krogan. For Vetra, a buyer connection interested in the Kett technology he knows she acquires on missions. Favors turn to favors. And for Ryder… </p>
<p>He writes an email, short, two lines. Completely vying for attention, exposing a past to instill assurance in the present. Normally he isn’t one to pledge anything outside of contract, loyalty a brand he can take off at the end of the night for freedom. But those people aren’t the Pathfinder. </p>
<p>
  <em>To: Ryder<br/>
From: Reyes Vidal</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>In cases you were wondering…</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I have better taste in men than I do in women. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Reyes</em>
</p>
<p>And just for the final glances they shared that are forever immortalized in his memory, he sets it on a timer to send that night, just past midnight, completely aware Ryder is still very likely on Kadara time. </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Communications with Thrasia go as well as expected. She’s tight lipped and quick witted and completely aware they are not actually flirting as they might once have been. Back in the badlands, she speaks through a line meant for the Wind Farm, one she doesn’t mind using freely and with her bargaining skills no one is apt to stop her, that lazy panther smile clear even without video.</p>
<p>“You’ve gotten so cold, Vidal. I was in town for the big celebration and we didn’t even have one drink?”</p>
<p>“What could I have said? You were having plenty of fun with Vetra and Harper.”</p>
<p>“So you did see me.”</p>
<p>Ella tiene cojones, she does not play around. “Respectfully, I kept my distance and let you work your contacts.”</p>
<p>“If I didn’t know better, I would express gratitude.” Thrasia hums into the phone line, “Whatever you were doing was more interesting, huh. I can’t wait to find out what.”</p>
<p>Friendly pretend out the window, he decides to simply ask, “While that keeps you occupied, I have an innocent question about the residents of the Wind Farm.”</p>
<p>“The intrigue’s finally gotten to you? Want a little more excitement in your life? We have plenty.”</p>
<p>“Recruitment speeches are lost on me.”</p>
<p>She clicks on the other line, clearly multitasking. “Too bad. I think I could offer equal to your Collective paycheck.” </p>
<p>Likely impossible. “Do you have a group under the name ‘yakshi’ present?” </p>
<p>A pause, mulling over what to say and how much. Silence keeps both lines for a brief moment, and finally Thrasia asks, “Did something happen?”</p>
<p>“You’ll hear about it soon enough.”</p>
<p>Another second of assessment. Without finding a clear disadvantage in sharing her information, she yields, “They’re here, making money, gathering recruits and speaking ill of any other brand. Mostly blowing steam but the intent is there. A lot of talk about how Sloane’s gone soft and the Nexus needs to be actually confronted.”</p>
<p>“You know their leader?”</p>
<p>“That’ll cost you.”</p>
<p>He pulls forward a datapad of recent acquisitions, and a full list of tools that he’s sent to the Wind Farm for notes. “Half price off a reinforced platform transformer, two for the cost of one.” </p>
<p>She hisses from the other line, the offer hitting just right, “You always know what to say. You’ve got a deal. An Asari who goes by Elora. Dark around the eyes with a scowl meaner than most. She’s usually got her number two with her, Yuri. I expect to see those parts by tomorrow, Vidal. I know you’ll be right on time.” </p>
<p>“It’s a promise, Thrasia.” </p>
<p>“Love it when you say that.”</p>
<p>Assigning a shipping vehicle the order number, Reyes flicks through the various comms going around the Collective, stopping when he sees his own name. Deals that have fallen through due to vanishings in the badlands associated with murder. Grudges against one smuggler cost lives. The intel is still fresh, and the Pathfinder’s name is not yet associated which is a both a blessing and possibly a concern depending on who the news makes it to. If it deters bad blood in those hungry for profit and less for violence, it works in his favor. He’ll keep tabs on how it plays out. </p>
<p>Lachlan has a message in wait for him. She’s dropped her shipment and has space in her holding in case there are any Collective requests from Eos. He forwards her a basic list of processed foods, oxygen tanks and then asks for a few recon favors. Gauge the military presence and the security details. Is the Initiative spreading base and at what distance to time? What kind of barrier are they using to fend off wild life? Is there an ID recognition portion ability in their shields? He’s sure she’ll champion the inquiries, those dark eyes coming back to life from his memory. He turns off his monitors for a quick shower, hearing the rise of bass from Tartarus signaling the beginning of late-night dances and the crowds. </p>
<p>Water on his back, hot and steaming, the day falls away, details like drops, sure to recycle themselves after time. The privacy is welcome, every action reminding him of how tired his body actually is. Toweling off, he sees the small light of a new message. Coming forward, running his hands through his hair, a smile catches.</p>
<p>
  <em>To: Reyes Vidal<br/>
From: Ryder</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You still owe me no matter how much you flatter me. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ryder</em>
</p>
<p>Cracking open a vitamin pouch, Reyes sits to write a message back, intent on catching Ryder before he sleeps. Even at the best speeds, the Tempest should be expected a half day’s travel out of the system and into Elaaden’s range. They’ve not landed yet. Towel around his neck, and only a pair of underwear pulled on, the long distance allows creative direction for guessing where the Pathfinder might be and the state he’s in while writing to him. Is he also fresh out of the shower, retired to the seclusion of his chambers? Or is he still in uniform, neat and tidy in the public space, sending personal emails between work? </p>
<p>Either idea sits well with Reyes. </p>
<p>
  <em>To: Ryder<br/>
From: Reyes Vidal</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Whatever you want, Ryder. Just say the word. In the meantime, send me some pictures of Elaaden. Maybe with you in them. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Reyes</em>
</p>
<p>Alongside the familiar slum echoes, sleep settles in bringing dreams of dance floors under blue and pink and purple lights. Faces are obscured, blending like furniture does in a dark room, hands and bottles are everywhere, endless rows of barely organized chaos. Glass clinks, music thrumming into even his bones, his body moving slower than usual, frozen in the middle of everything moving around him. Across the room, between the blur of twirling people, a scuffed Initiative chest plate catches his eye. </p>
<p>It’s Ryder, with dirt on his face and the first set of armor Reyes had ever seen him in, its white color making for a pretty faded pink and purple beneath the lights. His eyes are glowing, that smile he remembers from when the Pathfinder was shaking hands with his first success story, Bradley, clear on his face. He’s speaking to someone sitting at a table, Ryder standing and sweeping an arm in the conversation, explaining something. Turning his head, Reyes catches faintly a voice he isn’t sure he wants to hear. Harsh words curved with amusement, sarcastic but lacking the typical anger. Sloane’s snarl of a smile flashes through the crowd, and before he can get any closer a hand grabs his arm. </p>
<p>Flipping around to the barrel of a gun, Zia glares him down over the pistol, “You’re a real bastard you know that?” The blast shocks him awake, startling him, heart punching through his chest. The room is cold, his blankets down around his legs, bare shoulders and arms cool to the touch. Checking the time, even though the dream felt like a snapshot, a fraction of a memory, he sees he’s been asleep for seven hours, morning trickling through the tinted windows. Sighing over the side of the bed, Reyes falls back into his pillows. </p>
<p>Keema’s name is flashing on his monitor. She’s called. Business before his morning coffee? He thinks she can wait a little longer. </p>
<p>Sipping a mug of steaming coffee, he glances to Keema by his side as they stand in the marketplace waiting on an Angaran contact. They’re behind Velonia’s usual counter, the Turian not arriving until tomorrow at the earliest. Keema’s staring at him, deciding how to approach the situation and finally chooses, “The rumors.”</p>
<p>It’s enough between them, and he looks back across the scarce but present number of customers and vendors, most just making conversation or preparing for the afternoon sales. Outcast guards are limited once light hits the metal and a few Krogan are typically enough to ward off any real violence or confrontation. Guard dogs on patrol as some say. </p>
<p>“It’s early.” He deflects. </p>
<p>“Rumors don’t sleep, Vidal.”</p>
<p>“They’re hardly strange for Kadara.”</p>
<p>She nods contemplatively to this, arms loosely folding about her. “Tell me the truth of what happened.” </p>
<p>So he speaks on the details of Zia’s plot to deceive then murder, security in her numbers and their resentment still boiling hot enough to scald, ready to maim and rip his throat out. How his relationship with the Pathfinder prevented tragedy on his end, although Reyes leaves out any of the personal details, those safe between him and the man himself. </p>
<p>As an Angara comes in from the docks, he finishes and Keema murmurs to him, keeping her face neutral, “For now it might be best for you to take the credit.”</p>
<p>He couldn’t agree more. The Angara man walks up, large eyes dark and deep blue. He has an ever smiling set of lips and an almost childish innocence with his high upward angled eyebrows. Pleasure clear, he offers a hand to Keema who steps forward and they shake, telepathically greeting one another through the touch.</p>
<p>“Jen. You arrived safely.” </p>
<p>“You told of a safe departure hour. I took it. The endlessly clever Keema Dohrgun never tells a lie.”</p>
<p>Keema smiles, pleased, and waves away his compliments, “Flatter someone more your age.” </p>
<p>“I’ll flatter who I wish to.”</p>
<p>Reyes watches from behind his mug, amused, thinking Keema too sly. No wonder her and Annea work together so well. Jen Emed sits at the locked stool and leans in, mostly unaware of the human also behind the counter. </p>
<p>“As promised, I bring Angaran news from Elaaden. New Tuchanka’s leader Morda has requested the Pathfinder fix the vault and take care of the Flophouse.” They knew this but it is good to confirm it. “She speaks of a growing community, one that can thrive off the land without too strong a hierarchy and that they need to rid the land of bloodthirsty troublemakers. I have heard word that she will soon speak of collapsing the water chain so Annea is busy with security. There is fear amongst the lower gang members but many are mad with their freedom and welcome the challenge. As I was leaving, I saw the Tempest land. Annea sent me to tell you that she will expect support if her seat is threatened.”</p>
<p>Keema thinks over this, going still. To go against the Pathfinder is not necessarily in anyone’s best interest if just for the odds. Kadara has seen great improvement naturally from Ryder’s assistance, the rain and the acidic pools both turning clear, soil softening like a lover under a gentle touch. Annea is choosing her kingdom, and loyalties run deeper than the sand valleys on Elaaden’s surface. Even for the betterment of the land, some sacrifices are not a given. The future has not yet been decided.</p>
<p>She puts out a hand again, and Jen takes it, “Tell her she has me.” He squeezes her hand, knowing well that it is a serious line they have drawn, “Stars and skies.” Jen murmurs, standing to go before Keema stops him, “Let us visit Doshi Ge before you go. Smoke with me.” Keema nods to Reyes who returns it and both Angara leave the stall, slipping down a slender passageway barely visible unless looked for. </p>
<p>Reyes spends his day between acquisitions and pricing information. Clients needs are put to the top of his to-do, drop-offs and shipments making their way from Collective owned warerooms. Soon he will need to visit their Draullir base and assess the levels of ammunition and stocked chemicals for bombs as well as seeds pulled from Eos and Havarl. The timing is perfect for both profit and frame of mind, everyone still basking in mutual friendliness brought on by improved insurance of the future. Who would have thought a year from their arrival they would be investing in gardening?</p>
<p>Morda’s intent to disband the gang riddled Flophouse and undermine the Heleus black market will soon enough affect Kadara’s markets. Price shifts and product supply alterations. The ripple might travel back towards the Nexus itself, unless other avenues are provided to deflect the shock waves. Director Tann’s latest response will prove any change to his mindset on the value of people once abandoned but Reyes isn’t holding his breath. So far the Salarian has had minimal sympathies to offer and even less lenience in the face of disaster or unsavory reaction by his book. What could he want to offer perceived criminals out of a job? The Pathfinder, who answers to the demands of the people better than the system of authority, still cannot overrule Nexus protocol or manage every detail on the multitude of planets with life on them. These are known waves rocking their boat but could prove to be just the jostle the Charlatan needs for throne grabbing. The Collective will gladly welcome new faces needing a place to call home. </p>
<p>Several days after the departure of the Pathfinder, Sloane officially bans Oblivion, making it a strange commodity that some still hunger for beneath the channels. Withdrawal has plagued both Tartarus and the slums making for a poor few nights, the club rampant with fighting and yelling, glass shards sparkling beneath the lights, Krogans breaking up wrestling to toss drunk and trembling people back into the dirt. Blood pools are mopped up, new dancers taking the lesser jobs on, bending down in their checkered skirts and making conversation as they pick up splintered glasses. </p>
<p>Music plays on, but the mood has flattened and those still looking to drink simply sit at the tables, avoiding trouble. Kian is pulling his hair out, the cost of damage doing little to prevent premature greying. </p>
<p>“You gotta have something, mate. This is killin’ me. Not even the ladies can pull these lot into a dancing mood!” Kian pleads, folded over his bar counter. The glasses weren’t cheap and neither is paying the dancers on a night with less than ideal profit. He’s desperate for any shred of hope, no matter the source.</p>
<p>Reyes swirls his glass, “I don’t think more alcohol will fix this problem.” </p>
<p>One of the regular bouncers steps back in, folding her arms as she sweeps the premise for any more issues before settling back next to the door. She’s thrown out more than a few people tonight without even batting an eye and she’ll make no exceptions if another patron goes against policy rules. Giggling rises up from the dance floor, two humans and an Asari helping one another sweep the lingering shards into a dustpan, hands moving while they speak. </p>
<p>“Ay, well any solution will do better than none! Seriously, we made bank just after the Pathfinder restarted Kadara’s engines and now look at us!” Kian’s hand shows the sad state of the night, music pounding and cage dancers still in motion with their appeal calling a number of people but an empty dance floor and the scattered remains of usuals looking for another drink present a club out of its peak hour. </p>
<p>“I believe Dr. Nakamoto could help though.” Reyes offers, embers coming alive beneath his skin thanks to his whiskey. </p>
<p>“The doctor?” </p>
<p>“He’s been working on a replacement therapy drug to help with the withdrawal.”</p>
<p>Leaping up, eyes wide and voice high with interest, “Is he now? And?” Kian prods. </p>
<p>Reyes clicks the empty glass down neatly, “With a helpful donation from the Charlatan I hear he’s close to a breakthrough.” </p>
<p>A slap to the counter followed by a fine and dandy grin and Kian’s rejuvenated his attitude, “Well, why didn’t you just say so! I’ll be. We can make a few more evenings of this work, can’t we, Zrel?” He calls across the room to his bouncer who says coolly, “Whatever you say, boss.” </p>
<p>“Mighty fine help from the Charlatan. We get plenty fights from simply <em>drunk</em> customers. Don’t need another reason to put piss on the fire. Just the other night, that Isabel Halsey!” He whistles, shaking his head and pouring Reyes another glass of whiskey, “She riled up a few guys, throwing punches left and right. Told everyone to watch out, she was in with the next big thing. That they were going to blow up the Nexus and her name would be some grand tale. Spit blood everywhere, nasty thing.” </p>
<p>“She’s joined another gang?” </p>
<p>Kian takes a shot, breathing refreshed like a man who’s just had a drink of water in the desert, “Och, yeah. Some foreign name. She’s going to get herself exiled again. What’ll that poor brother of hers do if that happens? He hardly got a credit to his name still.”</p>
<p>“Maybe this time he’ll go with her.” Reyes replies, “See what the appeal is.”</p>
<p>This makes the bartender laugh and he rolls his shoulders, “Wouldn’t say the possibility for that is zero.” </p>
<p>“Did Cassandra make peace about Albadas?”</p>
<p>They share an amused glance although Kian’s eyes shine with a still tender horror. “Don’t even bring the lass up, you’ll give me flashbacks.” He rinses a few cups just as he might want to rinse his memories, “She’s not working today, luck on my side. Some people like the idea she might just bite you in the middle of service but not me. Cass makes the bills though so I try not to complain.”</p>
<p>Reyes drinks his last bit, and tells Kian he’s going to get some fresh air. Climbing the stairs outside the Tartarus, he sees the boarded-up Oblivion den and several huddling Angara outside it, sharing a cigar between them as he moves up a level. Dr. Nakamoto is tending patients from his medical container, patching up a bad scrape for a young agent who fell from an overhanging edge while taking video of exiles in the badlands. A woman is standing beside the doctor, hair braided and pinned so not to fall in her face, long dangling earrings silver. She has pointed face tattoos about her left eye and across the clearing, they make eye contact. But he moves on, finding solitude behind several creaking buildings where the placement lets in just the right amount of fresh air and the noise is minimal. The breeze is cool, and he opens his omni-tool, a message from Ryder making his buzz all the sweeter. </p>
<p>A file of pictures with captions. Fire red leaves of an Elaaden tree bright beneath the sunlight and surrounded by the glittering sand. Bushes just like flames bloom in the shade of the arching arms above, the contrast of color to exposure magnificent, a scene beneath a magnifying lens. Life finds a way, no matter the challenge. The caption reads, ‘shade is sparse but heaven sent.’ Poetic and yet charmingly reasonable. He scrolls to the next photo, one of the Krogan arena with its dueling champions of the week hurling heavy fists towards one another with Drack shouting from the sidelines, both fists raised and eyes wild with excitement. Beside him is Morda with a glorious and terrifying grin on her face, hand clenching the glass to see better. The lights make shadows along their faces, catching every wrinkle of expression. ‘Clan Nakmor’s idea of entertainment.’ </p>
<p>Reyes’ chuckle is cut short when he’s caught by surprise with the next photo. Ryder is turning toward the camera, brown eyes amber and honey, the first thing that has the man’s attention. He’s got a smile on, rosy in the face and hair wet with sweat, helmet in hand. He looks warm, crown of his head shining in the ever day. Every detail soaks in, a thirst Reyes didn’t know was sitting in the back of his mind quenching itself. It’s a natural expression, one captured possibly without the man aware, Ryder’s free hand raised in a loose point to whoever is on the other side. Reyes will put money on Liam; the man knows how to capture candid footage. Steady and rigid behind the Pathfinder is a monolith, almost rippling from the heat, and the Nomad parked in its precious shade. Around their feet lay the remains of the remnant protectors, Peebee squatting in the corner of the picture to collect material from their mangled robotic bodies. </p>
<p>He’ll save this photo. </p>
<p>There’s one more, a shot of Ryder stripped down to his undershirt, sitting in the open doorway of the Nomad, pouring sand out of one boot with a finger in his ear and clearly a complaint on his tongue. He has a streak of red across his face, and oh, Reyes’ guts curl with heat, that pinched brow and wrinkled nose exposing frustration. Someone has sand where he doesn’t want it. Peebee can be seen just behind him in the safety of the air-conditioned vehicle but Drack is laughing, hand on his stomach. Ryder’s shoulders are speckled with freckles, the swell of his muscles smooth, bare skin unusual and quite welcome. Behind them arches the infamous worm that Reyes has heard stories about, just as much a focus of the photo as anything else. Or maybe it <em>is</em> the natural focus. It almost looks like two forms melding into one, a rainbow of ancient technology creating plumes of sand and the Nomad is the symbolic pot of gold. These two pictures are captioned with, ‘Liam took these. He said to give you his info in case you wanted any close-ups. I don’t know if he meant me or the worm.’ Attached is Liam’s email, then Ryder’s name. </p>
<p>The man’s humor is showing through, and gaining another contact in the Tempest is quite the privilege. </p>
<p>“Hello.” </p>
<p>Reyes looks up from his omni-tool, closing the message system to see the woman from Dr. Nakamoto’s clinic standing before him. She’s tall, lithe in a completely black suit with a gun holstered at the hip and another at the thigh. She regards him, dark eyes fluidly looking him up and down. “Vidal, correct?” If her tone was anything more than confirmatory, he might’ve had a problem but one can never be too sure too quick. </p>
<p>Unmoving, expression still but not stiff, he responds, “I’d need to know who’s asking.” </p>
<p>“Ho-sook. I’m assisting Dr. Nakamoto with his work for the time being. Newly separated from the Nexus.” She introduces herself, “I’ve heard you’re someone to talk to if I’m in need of certain things. You’ve made a reliable business here, not an easy task.” </p>
<p>Lip quirking, he does enjoy honest flattery, “Actions speaks louder than words.” </p>
<p>“I’ve got the credits to make it worth your while.” </p>
<p>He offers her a hand to shake which she takes with a firm grip. “You’ve got my attention. Let’s go somewhere private so we can talk.”</p>
<p>Ho-sook joins him in his Tartarus room, whiskey in both their glasses and a cigarette between her fingers in a holder to keep it at a distance. She shares one with him, which he appreciates, having finished Ryder’s box a day ago. Red light on her black clothes goes ruby, her black eyes satisfied and serious, leg folded elegantly. Slow blinking, she blows smoke from the corner of her mouth, and says, “Is this place Collective run, or do you just have good standing with the owner?”</p>
<p>The air is rolling with a dull blur, cigarette haze sitting along them and Reyes holds his drink and lit cigarette in one hand, “Deals were made, and this is one of the perks.” </p>
<p>“What do you supply?” </p>
<p>He regards her over the rim of his glass and then says, “Alcohol, among other things.” </p>
<p>A thin line of smoke is pressed out from between her teeth, her nails painted black, clearly pointed without her protective gloves. Clicking the cigarette nicely on a slender, silver ash tray she unfolded from her pocket now on the table, Ho-sook relaxes back into her seat, “How do you get that past Sloane’s security? She’s got strict policies about substances in the market.”</p>
<p>“You get smart here fast.” </p>
<p>Aware trade secrets stay that secrets only one way, she changes the subject, “Ryota told me he gets his supplies from the Collective typically. Are you that agent?” First name basis, so she’s either been around or they know each other. </p>
<p>“That would be the Charlatan.” Getting one last drag of nicotine, he stubs it out, sighing, “The faceless leader of the Collective. Not someone at my level.” </p>
<p>“I’m looking to get some medicine here.” Ho-sook’s business finally comes forward, questions satisfied, “I know Ryota isn’t one to ask favors, and especially not from someone he’s never seen before. Even after the most recent payment for his trial drug came through. But I’ve got it hidden on the Nexus, behind a storeroom with a padlock only I know the password to. I don’t want Outcast to portion out their cut. I want it here, full case and the faster the better.” </p>
<p>Leaning in to light her new cigarette, he watches it come to life, “You want someone to pick it up, discreetly.” </p>
<p>“I’ve already been seen on the security cameras once in the area. I had the authorization, but I know I made a few guards suspicious. It’s gotten tighter in the medical and technical levels, harder to squeeze through now that the higher ups are pulling their shit together.” </p>
<p>“I can arrange something.” Reyes offers, waiting for more details. </p>
<p>“They’ve got a whole new system in place for those arriving with the new culture center. A total front for scanning and databasing the people coming in and out, but it’s not optional. You’d need someone low on the chain, just another worker bee in the hive.”</p>
<p>“Someone comes to mind.” </p>
<p>Drinking simply by lifting the glass, head unmoving, the heat of liquor stays off her complexion and Ho-sook says, “As long as they’re up for the risk. The containment pods Kandros has invested in are placed in public spaces to expose thieves and those trying to sneak out any classified data. They’ll have their face plastered across the Initiative security boards.”</p>
<p>“I’m not worried, they’re easy to miss.” He replies, and ever so slightly she shows the faintest amusement at her lips, “You’re quick.”</p>
<p>“I can tell you keep honest company with one of best doctors in the Port.”</p>
<p>“I’ll hand over the authority codes and location along with half the credits then.”</p>
<p>“Before that,” Reyes says, “Let me ask a few questions about the current situation on the Nexus.”</p>
<p>“Information brokering?”</p>
<p>“Call it curiosity this time.” </p>
<p>Pouring them both another drink, taking liberties, Ho-sook, indicates with a hand for him to go ahead around the bottle. </p>
<p>“How many entries are there into the Nexus?”</p>
<p>“From what I know, there are at least four main entryways. One for large ships, one for those working directly on the Nexus in construction, one for the general public, visitors and anyone who isn’t the Pathfinder, who has the last entryway I know of. Finalized when the Pathfinder officially arrived.”</p>
<p>“The Pathfinder has his own entrance?”</p>
<p>“He does. Director Tann wants him to be able to move as freely as possible without obstruction or too many distractions.”  </p>
<p>“Then there’s a wing specifically for the Pathfinder as well.” It’s more than an educated guess. </p>
<p>“There is.” She confirms, “It’s got high security, guarded at all times. They say that’s where SAM is. Basic hacking couldn’t even break down one firewall to open those doors.” One of her thumbs delicately rubs along her bottom lip, something to produce thought, “Director Tann has an office with just as much protection but the level of power his corner uses compared to the Pathfinder’s proves that Tann doesn’t have the AI with him. Crossed my mind, the credits it’d bring in to get my hands on SAM but wishful thinking doesn’t put anything in my pocket.”</p>
<p>“You know the layout?” </p>
<p>“I’ve seen the skeleton grids. They’re updated every couple weeks.” </p>
<p>“You provide a copy of those and I’ll let you reduce your price by twenty percent.”</p>
<p>Putting out the cigarette and closing the tray with a click, she gives him a hooded look, “How generous of you. Maybe it’s just as generous of me. You’re obviously invested in the Pathfinder.” </p>
<p>“It benefits you; my agent can provide better service with better information.” </p>
<p>The logic’s irrefutable, even if ulterior motives cling to the arrangement. “I’ll find it for you. Let me work my contacts.” Ho-sook agrees, and they shake hands. She packs her cigarettes away in a back pocket, drinking the rest of her drink. “I’ll let myself out; I want to get to know a few of the dancers. Call it curiosity.” She echoes his words, her wit not lost on him and the door opens and closes behind her. </p>
<p>Reyes sends Lachlan a message. They’ll start early. </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Exchanging emails with Liam allows for less surveillance, Reyes aware that the Pathfinder’s current mission mirrors activating the vault on Kadara and will hardly offer any new insights that aren’t currently available. Instead of following like a shadow, he wants to appear transparent, a tree in the forest instead of hiding behind the trees. It gives him more time to assign new layers in the Collective, their force preparing to grow as Elaaden oriented gang members flee from the imminent take down thundering towards them like the expected rain. Plenty believe the Pathfinder presence is just another hallowed threat they can maneuver out from under, like the Nexus and the terrain but others don’t want to take the chance. Morda’s made her stance clear but the talk of the Pathfinder as an outsider, one who’s hardly a real hazard with his shiny rules and their tall walls and blood pacts is just as present.</p>
<p>Krogan celebrate upon the news that Elaaden’s vault is finally working, humidity present and temperature still desert hot but bearable. It comes through the channels; the heavies requesting leave in order to visit the colony and join the festivities. Flyers are spread along the slums, Tartarus allowing digital adverts up on the walls to which even his own bouncers take a few days for themselves. </p>
<p>This gives the perfect chance for transfers, and while Krogan are making their way to New Tuchanka, agents from The Paradise and the Flophouse slide payments into pilots’ pockets to look for a new sky to live under. To die by Initiative purchased bullet is not the most memorable namesake for anyone looking to make a livelihood. There’s no guarantee any part of the body will make it out of the gang riddled exiled sands leaving the only companions for those killed in the action the UV rays to bleach their bones and the stagnant winds to blow their dust across Elaaden endlessly. If they escape in the chaos of change, they won’t need to worry about blood pacts taking off their limbs for betrayal. </p>
<p>An announcement from the Flophouse leader, Strogjaw Grog, a single Krogan whose only loyalties stand to cruelty and brutality, travels the channels that the Pathfinder has been officially named an enemy to their ranks and that he’s placed a high bounty on anyone who can sever his head from his body. The timing is not lost to the preconceived idea of coincidence. It’s meant to halt the momentum after the vault and shatter any fresh loyalties towards the Initiative before it snowballs. The glory that will follow is clear to plenty of neutral parties, and this boils the blood among Outcast pirates waiting for a reason to pick a fight with Ryder, even enticing enough to put a few of them on route towards the other planet. Several low-level agent Salarians who managed the water costs between The Paradise and the Flophouse come to Kadara to avoid getting caught in the crossfire speak of gang secrets, safety in the distance. They give information for security, rumors that Annea and Strogjaw Grog hold meetings beneath the ground, the first blood pact starting between an Angara and a lone wolf warlord bent on setting the world on fire. </p>
<p>Sometimes in the emails from Liam, where casual music is traded off and data on the planet is exchanged for Kosta’s notes, he sends a video alongside his photos, an invited window into their lives. The Tempest isn’t leaving until Elaaden knows of at least a performed peace and they’re making the best of it. Between the long working hours, and travelling through the badlands to woo Knight and her scientists, the distractions are welcome. </p>
<p>The most recents include Ryder eating cereal, shirt off in the med bay, Lexi smearing aloe vera treatment on burnt skin. </p>
<p>His voice rings in, “Ow! Lexi, can’t you be a little gentler?”</p>
<p>“How many times have I told you not to take off your chest plate under direct UV exposure?”</p>
<p>Liam comes in from the hallway, catching just as Ryder grimaces, tensing up under the Asari’s hands, “I was burning up underneath it, I couldn’t help it- Ow!” </p>
<p>“You certainly were burning.” She agrees sternly, wiping up his shoulders from his back. He’s red across the torso, even his ears showing sun.</p>
<p>“It was just a minute, honest.” </p>
<p>“A minute too long, Ryder.” </p>
<p>“Ouch! I’m- ow, ow, repenting.” </p>
<p>They both notice Liam come in and the man says, “Smile for the camera! Our hero, the greatest Pathfinder in history, forgot his sunscreen! Rookie mistake. A little endearing, huh.” </p>
<p>Lexi puts her hands on her hips, making sure not to get any gel on her scrubs, and replies pointedly, “You’re due for a check-up, Liam Kosta.” </p>
<p>Ducking back, catching a glance of Ryder’s cheeky smile, glad to be out from under the doctor’s attention for even just a minute, the karma instant, Liam retreats to the doorway. Ryder raises his eyebrows in mock expectance, eating a spoonful of cereal and Liam half laughs, “That’s not a smile, Lexi.”</p>
<p>“Smile or not, I’m not letting you escape. Sit down or I’ll find my tranquilizers.” </p>
<p>Whirling the camera around, Liam whispers, glancing over his shoulder, “Where’s the bedside manners? Right in the middle of my filming?” And the screen goes black. </p>
<p>The other video is special, Ryder standing alongside Cora in the sand, the sky rumbling above with greying clouds. Wind has picked up, Liam letting out a whistle as a blast rolls sand up into the air, and they watch in the distance, between the arching sandy rock formations standing like ancient cities, a crack of lightening that cuts the sky. Cora unlocks her helmet, then Ryder and a drop of rain plucks off his shoulder piece. Turning, Liam cheering, an honest smile blooms on Ryder’s face as more rain bounces off his armor. </p>
<p>“We did it!” Liam says, and the words speak to so much more than just one accomplishment, a painful uphill struggle summed up in those three words. The doubt, fear and lingering aches that followed their footsteps in the lonely, hostile world are being swept away, their future secured by their own hands. Ryder turns his face up into the oncoming rain, hands outstretched and they all let the clean waters that were thought impossible wash away the day’s sweat. The satisfaction and the delicate moment bought by resilience is forever captured, a moment in history. </p>
<p>During the lulls, Ryder and Reyes find time to share calls, sometimes with video but usually without, the emails not quite enough but appreciated. With all the back and forth, it comes naturally, Reyes being the first to call and Ryder always picking up. </p>
<p>“How many reports have you done today?” He asks, Ryder sighing, “Too many. I’ve been behind since Kadara.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like you have more free time.”</p>
<p>“We’re waiting for Morda to officiate infiltrating the Flophouse. She wants to be there, and make it known that New Tuchanka no longer supports the black market and that Elaaden shouldn’t either.”</p>
<p>“What is she waiting for?” </p>
<p>“The celebrations for the vault are still going on. She’s giving people the time and the cover to change sides, masquerading the festivities as a reason to leave. Plenty of Krogan were Flophouse diggers and she wants to give them a chance to leave that life.”</p>
<p>“Lots of non-Krogans have already fled to Kadara. You’ve really improved your reputation here on the Port. Some people actually miss you.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s amusement can be heard through the phone as he types, preparing reports, “I’m smart enough not to ask about what it was like before.”</p>
<p>Reyes is standing in the docks near his assigned sector, preparing several units to be unloaded and broken down. Alejandro is stacking the same serial number crates, listening to music out of an old speaker sitting out of the way, singing to himself with a couple other disguised Collective agents taping finished crates and breaking down containers that held chemicals talking amongst themselves. “It’s nothing you probably haven’t heard.” </p>
<p>“I try to avoid that rabbit hole. There are entire channels dedicated to trying to find something worth a front page. Liam thinks they’re hilarious; he found one that was trying to prove I’m actually just a clone and that they’ve gone through several Pathfinders already.” </p>
<p>Reyes chuckles, approving a transfer to the badlands for the Wind Farm for heavy duty batteries and industrial lamps. “More than one Ryder? What a treat.”</p>
<p>Ever so slightly, across the stars, Reyes can sense how the words weigh their mood and Ryder pauses just enough to alert him that it hit right, “One is plenty.” They’re still in the green zone, keeping casual conversation but Reyes knows he can push past that easily. </p>
<p>“There are channels that say flattering things too.” Reyes murmurs, indicating to one of his agents that the cold case for the day goes to the ground vehicle and marks it off his list. “Want me to tell you about them?”</p>
<p>“You read those?” The breath underneath whispers to surprise, likely favorable in Reyes’ direction. </p>
<p>“You’re popular, they love that small mole you have at the corner of your mouth.”</p>
<p>Is Ryder touching that spot? The man’s quiet for a moment gives Reyes a chance to give authorization and send Alejandro on his way out to the badlands for delivery, waving as the truck rolls out and the music goes with him. Now his attention no longer has to be divided and he says smoothly into the mic, “Ryder?” </p>
<p>“Do you have time tonight?” </p>
<p>“Enlighten me to the reason and I’ll see if I can fit it in.” Reyes digitally checks out of his sector, pulling the gate closed. Hearing each other’s voices in the right mood reminds them both of how long it’s been since they shared a bed. </p>
<p>“You know the reason.” </p>
<p> “I wanted to hear you say it.” He says slow and low, and Ryder, voice going hushed, just below normal talking level, “I can’t say it here.”</p>
<p>“Call me when you’re in a more private place.” </p>
<p> Keema hears from The Paradise; there is still uncertainty on whether it will be included for dismantling so business has continued as usual albeit with price cuts due to the presence of rain. Annea, while it is not her usual manner for handling things, is trying to lay low and keep out of the landslides both literally and figuratively. Storms pull entire structures down, folding brittle rock and pooling in valleys as mirages too real to confuse any traveler. Velonia talks about dreams to collect space rock, her current line of work slowly dissolving. Her voice floats with the knowledge that there is big money up there in the stars, just needing a ship and a chance. All too conveniently Reyes remembers Bain who is out defending the space roads but he says nothing. </p>
<p>From the Nexus arrives an Asari, Saneris, who has history with Keri but with her medical knowledge she slips past the Port regulations and manages to find her way down to the slums. She talks about exposing old murders, giving rest to those who were thought disappeared now that the badlands are viable for research. She takes on a bodyguard, hired straight from the slums, Drexel, a Turian who wants to make his credit off information found throughout her investigation. The payment for him protecting her back is worth the leeching, both of them trying to bring improper procedures to silence people to light even if by different avenues. Corpses previously inaccessible deep in the pits of acidic bubbling hellholes are floating lost secrets back to the surface and there’s little to be done unless association is to be revealed. Their warlord can do nothing but watch as the mass grave for traitors is being dug up.  The hairline fracture in Sloane’s throne splits just a bit more. Some even suspect Saneris is actually an undercover Initiative security detective. </p>
<p>Shena offers tips for lonely bones, sitting in the bars as dark stories about a badlands cargo room and its ghosts are whispered amongst new smugglers. With the service of an ultraviolet light the amount of blood that was spilt can be revealed proving how Reyes Vidal wiped out an entire ambush, his footsteps still visible, walking through the sea of red like a horseman of the apocalypse. </p>
<p>“All by himself?” They hiss over their glasses, still learning how to navigate Kadara. </p>
<p>“I heard he has a guard dog.”</p>
<p>“You think it’s a Krogan?”</p>
<p>“Word is it’s just a human.”</p>
<p>“No way. They’re just rumors though, right?”</p>
<p>“It’s better to believe stories like that here. Won’t catch you by surprise if you end up meeting one.”</p>
<p>Ryder calls, and Reyes slips from the Tartarus, blood hot already. </p>
<p>“Finished for the night?”</p>
<p>Just behind Ryder’s voice is the sound of a door closing, “Cora said she’d handle the security files, and SAM logged the week’s locational pictures and updates, so I’m off the hook.”</p>
<p>“You’re finally alone.”</p>
<p>Ryder confirms, “I’m finally alone.”</p>
<p>Reyes requests video alongside their audio, and the screen pops up on his monitor, Ryder sitting at his desk, made bed behind him, and white undershirt bright against his healed tan. His hair looks as if he’s been running his hands through it all day, and Reyes slowly looks for that mole they spoke of earlier, seeing it before Ryder notices, covering it with a hand to hide a forming smile, cognizant of the gaze. </p>
<p>“I think it looks good on you.” Reyes says innocently, seeing the detail of Ryder’s dark eyelashes dip down over hot brown eyes, “I can’t believe you read those tabloid gossip feeds.” </p>
<p>Reyes offers, “Haven’t you heard Director Tann is being suspected of money laundering during his career as an accountant? Where do you think those credits are going? Into his model ship building hobby?”</p>
<p>Laughing, rocking back, Ryder tells him, “Stop. Most of those details aren’t even true you know.”</p>
<p>“And yet they managed to capture how handsome you are quite well.” </p>
<p>Ryder’s eyes flash, looking at him seriously under strong brows. The heat is returning, like a slow simmer on the back burner. </p>
<p>“Nothing close to what I’ve gotten to see though.” Reyes rests into his chair, staring Ryder down, noting the Initiative blue around the collar of his shirt. “Especially the angles I’ve seen…” He has the man’s entire attention across the depth of the universe, nothing to come between them but the distance. Everything can fall away, and the first thing Reyes wants to go is that brand. “Is that your only shirt, Ryder?” He murmurs, mouth touching nicely in a half smile. </p>
<p>Ryder glances to it and says with a fixed answer, “It’s the easiest thing to put on for virtual meetings.”</p>
<p>“Then it should be just as easy to take off.”</p>
<p>Eyelids lowering, touching his lips with his tongue like a man noticing a thirst through a smile indicative of amusement, Ryder rolls back slightly in his chair to get better space. Reyes’ own personal fan cam, a performance all for him, so he verifies, “SAM?” </p>
<p>“Yes, Mr. Vidal?”</p>
<p>“Are you able to secure our line? I would hate for someone <em>uninvited</em> to join in.” Ryder’s entire top half is in view, his hands gripping the arm rests of his chair, thumb stroking along the smooth edge. He’s thinking about things, looking directly at the man of the fantasy, a level of power across a screen Reyes has known by another name but not in such an intimate fashion. </p>
<p>“I will provide extra firewall security. If there is any attempt at access to this line, I will immediately terminate the connection. I recommend using an ear piece for physical preventative measures-“</p>
<p>“Thanks, SAM.” Ryder interrupts, burning a hole straight through Reyes, fire in his stare and so the man begins removing his gloves, finger by finger in a slow promise. </p>
<p>“Now, without further interruption..” Reyes says, hands bare, as he indicates to Ryder who almost laughs, putting that hand back through his hair, scarred knuckles faded with the time in the sun. “I feel like you’re doing a great job leading.”</p>
<p>“I’m only taking you where you want to go.”</p>
<p>Grabbing the bottom of his shirt, Ryder pulls it over his head, the slimmest line of his boxer briefs visible without his belt keeping his pants in place. Ribs fleshed out and a chest smooth from all the watchful care of the doctor, Ryder tosses the shirt off to the floor, looking perfectly parallel to a man readying for a gravure photoshoot. He’s glowing with health, radiating energy and pull, and Reyes smiles. </p>
<p>“You look good.”</p>
<p>“They’ve got better rations coming in. We get to eat more than just freeze-dried food and supplements now. Lexi is adamant about fresh food.” Quickly he holds up a hand, “Much more exciting to find fruit in the Nomad than another energy gel.” </p>
<p>Reyes chuckles, relating, “I’m still waiting on cherries and strawberries.”</p>
<p>“Nexus had their first red strawberry just recently.”</p>
<p>“Genomed or natural?”</p>
<p>“Seedling. It’s cute. I’ll send you the article.” </p>
<p>“You’re still going to take your pants off for me, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Ryder quirks a charming smile, resting his chin on his hand, elbow on the desk, “I think it’s your turn.”</p>
<p>Thrill sharp as a needle, warm as a hot drink on a cold morning, Reyes relents, arms neatly sliding out of his over vest to reveal the tight protective suit beneath, armored in vital places and yet alluring in its tight fit and high neck, sitting right on all his angles. </p>
<p>“What’s that dent?” Ryder asks, seeing the blunted dip on one side of the chest plates, and Reyes touches it, a phantom ache settling beneath his fingers at just the memory. “A miscalculation with Sloane’s Outcast rebels; I got hit with shrapnel from one of her Krogran bodyguards’ cannons. Luckily I had this reinforced when I started with the Collective.” The truth comes out before he thinks about it, simple, without issue and Ryder listens, little judgment passing in his expression, although there is a contemplative quality to his expression. </p>
<p>“Glad you were a step ahead of that.” He says, and Reyes knows he’s thought the same thing about to the Pathfinder. Glad you make it out alive to be here. </p>
<p>“How about you? Those scars, on your face.” He finally asks. </p>
<p>Ryder touches along his temple to his cheekbone, unable to miss even one under his fingers, like they’re a secret message he’s read to himself many times. For a moment, Reyes thinks it may have been better to leave the question unasked, but Ryder begins. “When I was pulled out of stasis, I joined my father’s squad for drop down and recon on the primary golden world. First foot!” He says, echoing a past sentiment, a past naivety with a troubled undertone, hallowed by the grief, “We didn’t know what was about to happen.” The words get heavier, like he’s rarely talked about it, words that have spent a lot of time right next to his heart, “He knew about the vaults,” His eyes glance out of memory to Reyes, “My father. He knew more than we all knew probably combined. But when we activated it, something unexpected happened. The inside of the vault has to be filled with a potent gas upon start up, but before we could close the doors, it knocked us clean off our feet. We fell. A long way.” He swallows, squeezing his knuckles tight, “I broke my helmet on the way down, splintered the glass, that’s- that’s how I got these.” With a quick indication, he shows the scars and their painful past, a visible reminder for every mirror and every gaze of Alec Ryder’s son’s torture. The event that took his father, a lifelong repentance repaid by sacrifice of autonomy and massive responsibility. </p>
<p>Listening to each other’s damages, two men knowing well the vulnerability of the field equally, they look at one another and see someone glad the other walked himself out of a hard place to the light of the next day. </p>
<p>“You pulled through, Ryder.” Reyes says, acknowledges it, in its entirety, because he can do no more than look at the anguish and carry bit for him, see it for what it is. Something to bear. </p>
<p>“Barely.” He says, humor brittle with so much exposure to his darkest and most purpled injury. But they both manage to bring a smile to the other’s mouth, “It’s all thanks to SAM.”</p>
<p>“You held on, Pathfinder. It was your fight and I was there to welcome you into stability.” SAM responds, his name allowing him the entrance to the conversation. Ryder’s eyes go distant, thinking, and he says gently, “Yeah. Maybe.”</p>
<p>This could be Ryder’s first conversation about this out loud and it could equally be that he’s already shared his troubles with his teammates, but the person here is Reyes Vidal, someone beneath conceptualized justice and predetermined moralities. And he’s proud of the place he’s carved out, making it from a path so different, and seeing himself not so foreign in the eyes of a man complete by devotion to order and virtue, to righting wrongs even those not his own. To see he is chosen to be here for himself, no matter the decency of his existence. </p>
<p>“Are you still in the mood, Reyes?” Ryder asks, lip curving in a faint smile. Maybe it’s the distance, the lack of touch, where without the bodies conversing where the words might otherwise go, they need their hearts closer but it does not sit poorly, information obtained without need for smuggling it. </p>
<p>He unlocks his chest plate, unstrapping the shoulder plates, “You will find, Ryder, you can always put me in the mood.” Standing in one fluid motion, he releases the air and lets the suit decompress. Arms free, pulling down the enhanced leather, he reveals his naked skin beneath. A pair of dark underwear is all that’s left of his clothing, his dark happy trail disappearing underneath the elastic. Ryder sighs, a noise he hears more than he sees, situating his outfit and boots out of the way. “Your turn.” He sits, pushing his hair back out of his face, the seat in his bedroom a throne in its own fashion. </p>
<p>Ryder stands, the line of the camera cutting just above his lips, parted in concentration focused elsewhere. He unbuttons his pants, blue underwear with a dark band visible as he drops them, kicking the white off. He leans forward, face close to the screen, mused hair somehow exactly what Reyes would hope for, tossled like a man fresh out of bed. Slow, thumbs hooked in the elastic he pulls off the last bit of covering and lets it join his pants with an easy motion. Breathing out, hand instinctively following the line of his newly naked skin, Ryder’s tan lines are obvious, wearing like a pair of trousers. As he sits, he says, “If you can’t tell my legs didn’t get as much sun.”</p>
<p>“I <em>can</em> tell your ass would look good in my hands.” </p>
<p>Ryder laughs, repositioning himself, “And then?” Half serious, he watches Reyes who strokes his face in performative thought, “Watching you take off those clothes, I’d like to bend you over that desk and show you just how you look on camera.” </p>
<p>Ryder’s hand glides down between his legs, listening. </p>
<p>“If just for the night, I’d make you forget. Just you, me and that lock on your door.” </p>
<p>Eyelashes fluttering with the thought, Ryder relaxes slightly. He’s kept it together a long time, riding on the universe’s need for him and the reflex to settle down, be mindlessly alive for even just a moment is endlessly appealing. </p>
<p>“We could take our time. Nowhere to go, nothing to answer to but each other and I have plenty of things to say.” Reyes continues, enjoying the tensing of Ryder’s shoulders and the slow, comfortable pace of his arm, savoring the escapism. </p>
<p>“Lean back, Ryder, show me what’s in your hand.”</p>
<p>“Hn..” stomach clenching, sharp jaw angle, free hand clenching to a fist, Ryder presents his inclination in his palm, thighs attractive against the chair. Reyes grabs himself through his underwear, feeling the arousal so harsh it hurts, aching to be touched and he breathes. Ryder is all to him, a man, a lover, a soldier, and he gets all the exclusive angles. </p>
<p>Ryder turns his face back up, pupils dark, and he says, voice low, “Take those off.” </p>
<p>Lifting his haunches, Reyes lets it tent as he pulls down, size clear, and then it as jumps against his stomach, his gaze jumps up and catches how Ryder pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in response. Seeing the mutual stimulation, breath hot like the fantasy of being able to touch, pent up feelings rush to the surface. Reyes loves how dark Ryder’s eyes get with arousal, and they’re hunger for him, watching to excite. To kiss those hips, and bite him along the sensitive inner thigh, leave easy red marks for only his eyes and Ryder’s to remind him, Reyes appreciates the view. </p>
<p>Eyebrows pinching, Ryder squeezes along the head, speeding up. “Just like that, Ryder. That’s my hand and this is yours.” He murmurs, and that has the man in its clutches, phantom sensations from their past sessions coming to life. Time only between them, a place totally for Ryder where titles could be left at the door. He needs this, and it shows. Painting his own chest, dripping down along the ridges of his tight stomach, Ryder lets out a trembling breath and Reyes, remembering how he once similarly painted those pretty lips, is quick to follow, the pinnacle so sharp it takes the air from his lungs and leaves him edging on boneless, arm buzzing. Chests moving in sync, they finally look at one another again and smile, satiated. </p>
<p>“I’d be concerned you’re too good at this..” Ryder sighs, grabbing a tissue off his desk for his hand. </p>
<p>“But?” Reyes mirrors the act, grabbing a hand towel. </p>
<p>“But I’m enjoying it too much to care.” Ryder flashes a grin, all teeth, and Reyes flushes down below again just under the surface, too soon for it to amount to anything more than hot blood. </p>
<p>“You’re something else, Ryder.” He admits, “You’ll get me started again.” And Ryder laughs. Reyes tosses the hand towel off into a pile of laundry and says, “Take a hot shower and get some rest. I have a feeling tomorrow you’ll be busy.”</p>
<p>“Goodnight, Reyes.” Ryder replies, and they end the call. Reyes falls back in his chair, eyes closing, seeing that grin. Devouring, fierce in its rough handsome angles, an appetite solely for him, a ravenous desire like lightening from the video of Elaaden’s first rain. He thinks of that smile too, and how it compares to the one for him. </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>
  <em>To: Reyes Vidal<br/>
From: Liam Kosta</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know you’re our number one intel on all things Kadara. The Initiative wants to establish an outpost but there seems to be complications. Sloane’s security, war between the Outcasts and the Collective, is it viable? Do we have the capacity to make the dream work?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Let me know. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Kosta</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>To: Liam Kosta<br/>
From: Reyes Vidal</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Prove the Initiative’s reliable. Gain favor with the ‘little people’ and it won’t matter who’s in charge. There’s always risk but it’s about which side’s got the most to offer. People like stakes leaning in their direction. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Reyes</em>
</p>
<p>As promised, Morda begins streaming for New Tuchanka’s mission, the Pathfinder and his chosen team members in the background. She’s given time to the Flophouse for its unconditional surrender and now this video will be proof that she is not to be fucked with. Strogjaw Grog’s response was gnarled laughter from a dark smokey office room high in the cliffs, cigar in hand and gun in the other. </p>
<p>“Come get me if you can.” His booming, earthquake of a voice challenged and Morda has no issue staking claim to it. Excuse or not to get right in the line of fire, she shows vicious promise to keep her word. </p>
<p>The stream is available everywhere, even in Kralla’s Song, Sloane voicing little issue about letting the Krogan embrace glory in their name on another planet. With celebrations officially over, many bodyguards and heavies have returned to post and the screens showing Morda loading cannons feeds a good morale. Ryder is wearing a new suit, glowing with remnant technology, black and red, angles as sharp as fangs. The soft round quality of his old Initiative armor is gone, charged tubes feeding life throughout the chest plate and helmet, shoulder plates angled like the beginning of wings on a dark knight. Beside him stands Drack, the Pathfinder no longer appearing as small as he used to, loaded with dark weapons and black glass and power both seen and growing. Cora is standing by as well. They’re waiting for transport which will be through Krogan land vehicles. When the mission is finalized, Morda’s voice booming through the colony about a flourishing Krogan society and Elaaden’s future, both the Pathfinder team and herself with her chosen Krogan, Varka and her closest warriors load into the large truck equipped with charged shields and plating as thick as a Krogan forehead. The last angle from the colony watches the truck vanish into the desert, the tension drawn and the resilience of silence proving everyone’s attention on it. </p>
<p>The canyon into the Flophouse valley has the conversation inside the truck to a minimum. The hired camera, a free agent from The Paradise, catches everyone’s expressions before they enter enemy territory. Drack is chewing Varren jerky, arms folded across his broad chest and Morda is shining a hard-hitting hammer, the mallet as big as her head with brutal knobs arching out, clearly made from the bones of fallen fighters. Varka is muttering complaints under her breath to the Krogan next to her about a feud she’s currently having and Ryder is sitting still, focused, maybe talking with SAM, one hand holding the other. Cora sits beside him, typing into her omni-tool. </p>
<p>They pull out of the shadows, Strogjaw Grog leaving the wall security down as a welcome. Doors painted with handprints have been left open, speaking to the expectation of their arrival. Through the front windshield, the camera catches a sweeping frame of the multi-level facilities built into the rocks just like New Tuchanka. The resilience and the capture of shade proves Strogjaw Grog a strategic Krogan, his kingdom much more than blood, bones and weapons in the sand. Tall towers for recon and snipers are covered with red tarp to deflect sun and a warning shot whizzes by, crunching in the sand. </p>
<p>High pitched feedback rings for a brief moment before a voice echoes through the valley, “Morda.” Strogjaw Grog’s voice grinds, all iron and hardship, through the speakers, reverberating off high walls, “The Flophouse will enjoy beating you into sand. Then I will take your throne, paint it red with your blood and make your bones as new arm rests. I hope you brought the Pathfinder with you; I want to kill two birds with one stone.” </p>
<p>The warrior sitting next to Morda has gone dead silent, heavy brow lowered and Morda claps her on the back, waking her from the sensation that death may be sitting in the open seat in their truck. “All threats. Simple to make ‘em, hard to keep their promise. You know that.” </p>
<p>The Krogan clears her throat, shifting, steeling the resolve she clearly has. “I know.” </p>
<p>“They ain’t gunna throw out the big guns just yet. Let’s drive closer; even if it ain’t as hot as it used to be, we don’t want to be dodging rockets by foot.” Drack says up to the driver who puts the vehicle back into gear. “Narax,” He calls to the back of the bench, “You watch the camera kid. Can’t let the reporters miss the good shots ‘cause he got caught up on the wrong side of a rifle.” The camera bounces, blurring the crooked grin on the mercenary’s face. </p>
<p>“You got it, Drack.” </p>
<p>Morda cracks her neck, the sand kicking up behind their wheels. Another shot cracks against their shields, pinging nicely. Swerving along the path of a cannon blast, rocking them back and forth, the vehicle takes a sharp turn and pulls underneath a sniper tower for the shade. Explosions ripple the air, buzzing into their shields. </p>
<p>Raiders spill out from the safehouses, weapons in hand, some settling against the railings above for far shots. Pariahs and agents with dark red armor, Strogjaw Grog’s color. From above on the cliffs, a resounding horn begins to blast, guttural and booming, announcing war. Morda stands, leaning forward because of the height of the ceiling. </p>
<p>“First, I’ll take out the sniper towers.” She hoists the rocker launcher onto her shoulder, “It’ll keep them from hitting us as we climb. Pathfinder team, you clear the path. Varka, you and the rest take out the lower layers. We can’t have them following us up.” </p>
<p>The backdoor glides open, and Morda steps out into the gleaming sandscape, her wideset grin clear, “And camera kid? Don’t die.” She roars, “All out!” And the Krogan begin filing out, large steps shaking the entire vehicle. Ryder stands, Cora following with Drack. Narax is waiting for the camera outside, and she indicates with a roll of her head, “Stick with me.” She has a set of iron knuckles and a barrage of grenades, double barrel shotgun holstered. One eye is covered by eyepatch but she insists her aim is impeccable, laughing at the expression from behind the lens. </p>
<p>Ryder loads his shotgun, and Cora murmurs to him, just barely audible with all the noise, explosions and shouting and the booming horn of battle, “I’ll lift, you break through.”</p>
<p>“Copy that.”</p>
<p>Drack rotates his arm and says, “And I’ll smash.”</p>
<p>They burst forward, Ryder’s jump jet red now, flashing hot like lava. There’s no hesitation, despite the obvious difference in numbers. This is not simply a market of people trying to make a credit for dinner, this has become a statement to the universe. Raiders attempt shots that bounce off shields with ease, Cora throwing lightweight fighters into the air to meet the barrel of Ryder’s shotgun. </p>
<p>There is disadvantage to climbing, barricades doing little to prevent arching attacks and ambush by multiple close-range assaults halts advance with brute force. The slender platform between stairs keeps them tight, but the ranks break by grenade, shattering front lines and disabling shields just enough for a slug to rip through and spill blood. </p>
<p>They ascend, Drack pummeling men and women off the stairs with his arms, the hits strong enough to concuss and the fall far enough to break bones if not kill. Ryder jumps off the third to last stair, one hand catching the edge the next level platform and through the rungs he grabs an ankle and yanks them to their back, flipping over the bars to straddle their startled form. He blasts through the chest plate, reloading with experienced hands. Their gun in hand, he shoots down several following raiders coming from below, taking a knee. Cora and Drack join several agents later, her pistol in hand, and blood smearing her visor. </p>
<p>Raiders burst from the next building, smokey rooms opening to the daylight and bullets exploding free, like rain. Throwing down a barrier for Cora to shoot over, Ryder tosses a grenade to Drack who hurls it into the room, and in the chaos, Ryder leaps the barricade weightless a moment, jump jet exhaust just like tattered wings, the bringer of death descending. He pounds straight through the floor, shattering through metal with his fist and hurtling several guards to their death, screams hallowing with the echo. The awkward weight of the building begins to sink, and while entire cargo boxes begin to slide, Ryder spears through an agent too surprised to cloak and rakes him up a wall dragging through the reinforced steel, watching the Salarian gurgle on his blood, ripping open on the laser hot blade. Snatching the agent’s arm, he disperses the cloaking screen and they both vanish briefly, distracting several oncoming gang members. One shrieks in surprise and pain, Ryder’s blade exploding from their chest. Trembling fingers touch at heat, but little is to be done and from his belt, a pistol is taken, Ryder kicking back a raider and shooting two holes through his helmet. </p>
<p>Whirling, Ryder thrusts it through a Turian, breaking straight through his shields but he yanks it free quick, ducking a sticking grenade which clings to the distracted raider who fumbles, jerking back and flipping headfirst back over a railing. </p>
<p>Morda is far across the sand, kneeling with her rocket launcher, taking down her third sniper tower, smoke curling up from lost buildings and exploded cargo. Her hammer waits across her shoulders, glossy in the light. Varka’s roar of battle can be heard from every point in the valley, hand to hand with the heavies down on the ground level. From the hole in the metal, cargo drops through, smashing down onto sand vehicles. </p>
<p>A biotic lance blasts through a pariah, imploding her shield, rippling electronic energy outward and crumpling her body. With another shockwave, raiders are forced back into Drack’s waiting reach, his hand gripping the throats of two humans and smashing their helmets hard together. Cora pulls forward another agent, spinning cleanly and throws him clear off the edge. </p>
<p>Creaking like a cry, metal folds, the final sniper tower folding onto itself. Ryder has dropped a level, feet creating such a shockwave, he’s knocked the enemies to the ground. Two shots later, he walks over their lifeless bodies, smoke and clouds of sand floating up from behind. Fire erupts but does little to deter the Pathfinder’s focus who takes a running start, gunning through another agent, before rolling under a sweeping Krogan ax. The heavy pivots, lifting it high above his head to cripple, but Ryder is on his feet, timing the impact plummeting sand into the air for his concussive shot to crack back the Krogan’s head and blind him briefly. Jumping forward, jump jet hissing like a snake, feet planted on the Krogan’s shoulder pads he grips the forehead plate with strong fingers, and tears it forward, sending a terrifying growl of pain into the air, shotgun nestling into the crack. He pulls the trigger, blood spraying up like a fountain. Touching his armor, it hisses, fuzzing into red steam. </p>
<p>A rocket hurls towards him, Ryder reacting with instinct, jumping, missing the heat of fire like a caress. It spins out, exploding close to the vehicle and Narax grabs a piece of fallen metal and blocks the erupting shrapnel for both herself and the cameraman. She tosses it to the side then says, “Close call, huh.”</p>
<p>Her shotgun spins into her hand, and she shoots up into the tower, spraying pellets through the flooring and a man curses, shooting over the edge with a wounded shoulder. </p>
<p>Distraction takes the camera off the Pathfinder but Narax wasn’t lying about her aim and manages to launch the man off the watch position by cannon shot and the lens pans back to see Ryder kick back an assault by laser sword, giving the agent whiplash by gripping that very arm with their weapon and using it on themselves, punishing the attack. A well-aimed throw hurls a safehouse into flames by grenade and through a scan, impact bone breaking, Ryder exposes the cloaked agent with a clear shot. </p>
<p>“Ryder!” A call snaps his head up to the sight of Cora retreating to the pounding footsteps of their enemy, Strogjaw Grog, arms larger than any Krogan they’ve met yet and blood red armor thick, covered in the markings of past battles. His helmet is pointed, built in order to enhance headbutting, red fiery spots for his eyes gleaming devilishly. In his hand waits his Ruzad infamous for hard hitting shots and the vicious claw of a bayonet beneath to tear the head from any enemy. Each step is less about joining the battle and more about intimidation, Strogjaw Grog’s patience, his fearlessness clear. He doesn’t care if his kingdom burns. He doesn’t care about the fallen. There’s something bigger in his path. A shot which barely misses Cora’s shields with a charging dodge shatters the flooring, scorching even the metals black. </p>
<p>“Yes,” The Krogan echoes, voice thick, “Call for the Pathfinder! Bring me that Initiative dog!” </p>
<p>Ryder is running, form perfect, circling to the stairs. </p>
<p>Drack bellows, charging the Krogan leader, gripping him with both arms. They slide, Strogjaw Grog using a widened stance to prevent them both from flying off the edge, thin pole railings nothing to a Krogan. “Ah, clan Nakmor.” He tears an arm free, the other with his shotgun still pressed to his side, “I thought you retired. But today can be that day!” He spins on his foot, using his own jump jet to explode him forward and rocking Drack’s stability. They step before the stairs, vying for the stronger legs. Suddenly Strogjaw Grog, grabbing the top of Drack’s helmet, tosses him over the stairs with a roll of his shoulder. </p>
<p>“Drack!” Cora shouts, the warlord following with speed accented by his suit, a looming thundercloud of power. He throws several good punches, pounding Drack who attempts a wave of tech incineration. “Too little too late, old man!” Strogjaw Grog roars, headbutting him roughly and tearing the mechanic arm, wrenching pain from Drack’s voice. The blade of his weapon draws blood, vicious like the jaws of a predator and Drack grabs it in a hand to prevent it digging deeper into his flesh. A lance pierces a blood red armored shoulder, electricity sparking from the cut and the Krogan looks over his shoulder back towards Cora. </p>
<p>One jump is all he needs to crest the stairs and he rises from his crouch. “Welcome to the Flophouse, your grave.” Waving through Cora’s biotics, laughing with relish, Strogjaw Grog sweeps a hand which she dodges, shooting at his armor which deflects the bullets with ease. “Your Initiative toys don’t know true war.” Smashing the ground with a resounding fist, the entire level tremors, rocks falling randomly, threatening to crush those underneath and when Cora leaps from under a shadow he grabs her, throat in his large hand, lifting her easily, “Fragile human! How I would love to do this same thing to Director Tann!” Her kicking legs find the air above the edge. She yanks at his fingers, but his strength proves too much. Beneath them Morda roars, blood rage distinct, her hammer crushing armor into a prison as she tries to approach, surrounding by raiders. </p>
<p>A concussive shot knocks Strogjaw Grog’s elbow, giving Cora enough leeway to slip free, collapsing to the ground. She breathes, not quite ready for agility but Ryder positions a sniper gun pulled from the rubble onto a railing just right and loads a shot. He fires and it breaks through one of the eyes, piercing the Krogan’s vulnerable flesh. Roaring, he lifts a hand to his face, snarl hidden behind his helmet. Loading another shot, Ryder tosses a med pack towards Drack above on the platform between two sets of stairs, recovering.</p>
<p>With rage palpable, Strogjaw Grog threatens, “Pathfinder!” the next bullet pinging off his armor. He leaps into the air, uncaring for his wounded eye and smashes into the railing and the platform with Ryder, rocking it viciously. His hand is quick to grab the gun, breaking it in his fist. “You’re lucky you’ve wounded me; it’ll give me something to remember you by.” He looms, his own shadow a promise of pain. </p>
<p>One hand quick to backhand, Ryder ducks, then pulls free a grenade. It sticks to Strogjaw Grog’s armor, but the Krogan merely pulls it free, squeezing it between his fingers and holding it through its explosion. That same fist, fiery and burning hot, punches barely missing Ryder’s head as he whips to the side. But through the smoke and black coiling remnants of the bomb, Strogjaw Grog’s armored head slams into the Pathfinder, ripping through his shields and connecting directly, headbutting him in the chest off the platform. </p>
<p>Jump jet quick to recover, Ryder manages to catch himself with one hand and his feet but the weight of the Krogan jumping after him knocks the recovery out of him. He spins, shotgun ready and shoots, throwing back the hand raised to shoot. Rolling back, he kneels, shooting once more and blasts the gun right from Strogjaw Grog’s hand. Both hands free, the Krogan barrels forward to grab and Ryder drops his own shotgun to match him, gripping those hands. </p>
<p>“I admire your persistence, Pathfinder. I want to wear your skull.” The warlord snarls, and pushes forward, Ryder creaking back, toes sliding. “Should I break your back, or will you beg for your life?”</p>
<p>Glowing red, jump jet lighting, Ryder holds his ground, chest heaving. His arms shiver once, and this makes the Krogan grin madly. He increases his weight, Ryder shuffling back a bit more, the drop off edging closer. </p>
<p>“Break!” </p>
<p>A similar tactic used to escape Morda’s grip of death, Ryder suddenly folds both his legs forward, slipping beneath the weight of the Krogan and using the momentum to propel Strogjaw Grog over head by both his feet and off the platform towards the ground. Spinning, he jumps after, grabbing the Ruzad. Aiming the bayonet just right, Ryder opens his legs to land, the knife piercing through the Krogan’s gut. Still shell shocked from the fall he can do nothing more than throw wild arms at Ryder who cocks the gun and says, “Don’t underestimate the enemy.” And shoots, rippling through the entire suit and mangling Strogjaw Grog’s insides. A thick cough of blood erupts and the Krogan groans intensely. </p>
<p>With that wild hand, he grips Ryder’s leg, yanking him, tearing the bayonet further up into his ruptured organs. He grabs at the Pathfinder’s head, holding it by the chin, “Show… me.. your face..” Strogjaw Grog breathes hoarsely, “Show me.. the conqueror of the Flophouse..” </p>
<p>The tension lessens minutely, Ryder simply looking on. But he unlocks the helmet despite the danger. He pulls it free, air lock rushing. There’s sweat at his temple, and Strogjaw Grog looks at his face, fire behind them blazing freely. The draw of a brow and his age, the faint scars and his serious set mouth. </p>
<p>“Maybe I’m the old man now..” The Krogan says in weakened humor, hand dropping heavily to his side. “Keep the shotgun.. she’s yours now.” He sighs, eyes falling closed, “My time, huh.. The Nexus wipes the slate clean..” </p>
<p>Ryder watches him go, standing only when he’s certain the warlord’s passed on, the Flophouse following its master. Helmet on, Ruzad in hand, he approaches their vehicle with the burning terror of their attack as his backdrop. Cora and Drack, whose arm will need repairs come to his side and the Krogan shakes his head, both amused and impressed. His good hand holds his side. </p>
<p>“You’ve got guts, Ryder.” </p>
<p>Morda is quick to join, and she says, “Has Strogjaw Grog been defeated?” Her breathing is labored and the black smoke from the fires paints her face but she is uninjured. “Have we been successful?”</p>
<p>Varka cheers as she comes approaching, fist raised in victory. </p>
<p>“Strogjaw Grog fell to the Pathfinder.” Cora says, looking on at Ryder who offers Morda the Ruzad. She lifts it, the camera man taking a good shot of them before the fallen Flophouse. The violence in the image is not lost; it is both a threat as much as a battle won. </p>
<p>“New Tuchanka champions the Flophouse! Another round of celebration is in order!” Morda exclaims, “The Pathfinder brings glory again to our colony!” She looks powerful with the gun of her enemy in hand and the fire of rebellious gangs burning their livelihood away licking at their heels. Leader lost, flame eating the shelter, anyone left alive will be taken into custody. The stream is halted after this announcement, leaving a hundred articles and several big channels to take on analyzing the data. Keri even makes a comment, Ryder’s new suit and his stance edited on a new banner on her site. The Nexus has yet to give an official opinion, especially about the funding of the suit and its lack of emblem and the murder of a criminal Krogan. </p>
<p> Several days later, Reyes gets a call from Liam, unexpected but not completely out of character. </p>
<p>“Vidal.”</p>
<p>“Kosta.” He greets, “How’s the colony?” The solitude of being in the Draullir caves lets him converse in peace, sitting in the back office only he has the key and codes for. Warm yellow light from the lamps and the nice leather chair are a welcome place for thought and business. </p>
<p>“It’s been busy. We’ve established an agreement for an outpost here near New Tuchanka. Morda sees the benefit of associating with the Initiative as long as it’s by her rules. It’s been paperwork up to our knees! Addison really thinks she can just script life on the field.”</p>
<p>Reyes senses there’s something else, something more. “But you didn’t call me to tell me about the outpost.”</p>
<p>Liam hesitates then admits, “No, I didn’t.” </p>
<p>Cold settles beneath the skin, right under the surface, turning his stomach icy. “Has something happened?”</p>
<p>“You probably saw the Flophouse stream.”</p>
<p>“I did.”</p>
<p>“Well, Ryder’s on bedrest. Broke some ribs, bruised pretty bad. He’s okay; he’s healing. But I thought you might, I don’t know, give him a call. Check in.” </p>
<p>So, the hit from Strogjaw Grog was more serious than it seemed. Processing the new information, Reyes keeps his initial reaction to himself. Tapping his finger on the desk surface, he agrees, “I’ll give him a ring. Is he on pain killers?”</p>
<p>“Just enough. Wants to be lucid in case we need him for anything official. I tell him it can wait, but,” Reyes can almost hear the man shrug, “That’s Ryder. Anyways, don’t tell him I told you.” </p>
<p>“It’ll be our secret.” </p>
<p>They hang up and Reyes breathes. He’ll confirm how Ryder really is. Is this part of the reason there is no official Nexus word? Why Ryder had nothing to offer to the final words on the stream? It rings, and rings, no one picking up, the video screen black. He calls again and the video comes up, Ryder answering, rubbing his eyes. </p>
<p>“Reyes..?”</p>
<p>The video screen is aimed at his bed, Ryder laying in pillows, hair a mess and shirtless. He looks like he might have been sleeping, but he drowsily smiles, sitting up into the pillows with a clear grimace, “I didn’t expect your call.” His chest and around his shoulder are bandaged, all pristine white and clean lines. </p>
<p>“Were you asleep?”</p>
<p>Eyelids heavy, Ryder hums, “Just drifting off.”</p>
<p>“New monitor?”</p>
<p>“Gil helped set it up for me. Reports, calls, everything’s easier without me having to get up.” He muses his hair then thinks, thoughts slow. “I-“ Abashed, he glances about, “I didn’t think you’d see me like this.”</p>
<p>“Like what?” Reyes plays naïve, “Just waking up?”</p>
<p>Ryder laughs, genuine, resting back into the pillows, “You got me there..” He finally looks fully into the camera, eyes almost black and smile loose. “You look great.” Brows creasing, he cocks his head to the side, “Where are you?” </p>
<p>Reyes smiles back, “How’s the pain?”</p>
<p>“These pain killers.” Ryder sighs, tossing a weak hand, “Can barely think. SAM could help me out but-“</p>
<p>“It’s better for you to heal as naturally as possible, Pathfinder.” SAM confirms. </p>
<p>“See?” Ryder indicates to the air. </p>
<p>“I saw you at the Flophouse. You’ve got a new suit. Remnant technology?” Reyes edges the topic and Ryder grabs a bottle of water from the bedside table, “Yeah. Peebee helped design it.” His words have the slightest slur, the loopiness holding him despite his best efforts. </p>
<p>You were powerful, and you could keep getting stronger. You’re proving every fight that the super soldier can overcome even the biggest obstacles, including the body’s limits. But Reyes doesn’t say any of that and instead says, “How are your injuries?”</p>
<p>“Got a couple broken ribs, the bruising as bad as it feels. Sore.” He wipes his mouth, closing the bottle, “Really sore. But nothing serious.” </p>
<p>“Take some more pain medication. You’ll sleep better.”</p>
<p>Ryder half smiles, looking at him, “Not you too.”</p>
<p>“Trust me. When I found myself sliced open from a laser years ago I tried to cut my recommended pain killers those first few days. Didn’t trust my roommate. But I could barely sleep, woke in fits.”</p>
<p>Ryder listens so sweetly, Reyes finds himself clearing his throat. But the man says, “Tell me more.” </p>
<p>“Take your meds and I’ll tell you the full story.” </p>
<p>“Fine. Deal.” Ryder leans to the bedside and tosses back a few pills, swallowing them with water. So Reyes settles back in his chair, “It was before Andromeda was even a thing.. I found myself flying shuttles on the side. Mostly night shifts so I could still train on the carriers during the day. I wasn’t supposed to be out past curfew but the credits paid big and usually the clientele kept communication a minimal.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s eyes blink slowly, head heavy but his focus is completely on Reyes, and he nods slowly, “Sounds like you.”</p>
<p>“One night, I had to step off shuttle to grab the merch. I didn’t realize I would be the one…” Carefully choosing his words, he says, “Acquiring the goods. Tripped a security device and the entire building set off, lasers and guards everywhere. I managed to avoid most of the floor lasers, but once it began shooting at me, heat tracking, I took one wrong step and it cut me so fast I barely felt it. Bleeding, I managed back to my rented shuttle, somehow holding my wits together flying back. The doctor had so many questions.” Chuckling, he remembers a memory he kept mostly to himself. The details are his alone but sharing his youth, the Reyes Vidal of a different time satisfies a place in his chest just below the heart. </p>
<p>“And your roommate?” Ryder asks slowly. </p>
<p>“Big guy, blond, with a greedy hand. Laurence. Had a few things go missing while we bunked together on the carrier. He always grunted noisily in his sleep. Terrible drinker, and I didn’t want to be out of my wits in case he tried anything. He knew I kept stashes of credits or prizes from my jobs.”</p>
<p>Ryder chuckles, resting into the pillows, “But?”</p>
<p>Reyes smiles, despite himself, “But he got so angry hearing me moan about my stitches that he woke me up in the middle of the night, demanding I see the doctor again. Pretty much left me alone after that.” </p>
<p>“Your voice is so calming somehow..” Ryder sighs, and Reyes watches the softening of his expression, wondering if he’ll remember anything they talked about later. The line of his brow has smoothed, and his position appears comfortable. </p>
<p>Finishing his story, he watches the smile relax on Ryder’s mouth, “The first night I let the meds kick in, I slept so soundly, I woke up confused where I was.” </p>
<p> Once his breathing evens out, he tests, “Ryder?” </p>
<p>No answer, just the comforting sound of sleep. So he asks, “SAM?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Mr. Vidal?”</p>
<p>“Do you.. really feel everything Ryder feels?”</p>
<p>“Yes, everything including bodily sensations and injuries.”</p>
<p>“How is that? Is it not a distraction?” </p>
<p>SAM pauses, processing the question. “While it is not always a… pleasant sensation, I find myself anxious to prevent bodily harm. The Pathfinder’s life is my main priority on the field, above all else. We are one and not one. He holds the body, but I am to enhance his typical responses. Sometimes his decisions are in his interpretation of the situation and not in the best care for his body so it may actually be for the greater good.”</p>
<p>A speech pattern that at the minimal appears to express true emotion and a complicated, even individualistic thought process. “Do you ever take over for his best interest?”</p>
<p>“I have never taken over the Pathfinder’s body. That is against my protocol. If the Pathfinder requests this breach of me then I will do it at his discretion.”</p>
<p>“I see.” Reyes says and then asks, “How does Ryder feel now?”</p>
<p>“He’s relaxed, and his pain level has dropped drastically.”</p>
<p>Reyes thinks of a time he overheard how SAM could suppress emotion, suppress pain, alter the level of adrenaline and push the body physically. There would be bodily strain if used improperly but the peak performance at the right timing could change entire playing fields. The balance is important, even critical that both sides are keeping up with the other… but he’s sure Alec Ryder has conceptualized that. The protocol reflects a step too far, a place without balance, without equality in the relationship. With Ryder’s continual concern for those around him and SAM’s rational reasonable personality, the hunger for more power appears minimal. Enhanced but empathetic? There couldn’t be a better individual to test the qualities of the super soldier position. </p>
<p>“What happens if you and Ryder’s connection ends up disconnecting for whatever reason?”</p>
<p>“Ryder needs me. That connection will need to be reestablished within a time limit or there will be drastic consequence to the Pathfinder’s brain. I must have access to his implant at all times.” Did the AI say Ryder’s name for the first time? Reyes nods, half to himself. He has to process so he excuses himself from the conversation. </p>
<p>“Good work keeping Ryder standing at the Flophouse, SAM.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Mr. Vidal. Thank you.” </p>
<p>“I’ll call again later.”</p>
<p>“Goodbye.”</p>
<p>Ryder needs SAM… and SAM needs Ryder. They complete a project meant for creating a life among fresh stars. But Andromeda is ever changing and even super soldiers have their limits, some of them completely personal. That other AI, she is Andromeda made. She is perfect for a stage past this initial one, a stage above the altruistic Pathfinder with his rule abiding companion. Perfect for a man all about being the next step ahead with no allegiance to protocol. Even if his partiality cannot be avoided, he doesn’t mind the sensation of affection that has taken hold of him, something against his better judgement telling him of its strength in distraction, proving its success and a possible Achilles heel.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Clover</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Elaaden receives good news, although it had to be ripped from a certain Salarian's hands, and tension rises between the Collective and the Outcast, leading to risk beings tried.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I still have a lot I would love to add and rereading my own work makes for lots of questioning and uncertainty but I'm going to push through and try to finish before I attempt rewriting anything (hopefully) I'm learning a lot about what I think about Reyes through this project which is great for other projects I've been contemplating.  </p><p>Anyways, hope you enjoy if you've read this far!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“If you lower the charge, the lubrication will help the projection and you’ll be able to shoot at least two or three more shots before you need a recharge.” Ryder lifts up the bottle, clear, with a long spout, “Doesn’t need much but it works wonders.”</p><p>“How often do you lubricate?” Reyes asks, standing on the flight docks, waiting for Lachlan’s ship to arrive, with his omni-tool video screen open. He’s out of the way, another dark figure amongst the many, unnoticeable to those not looking to find him. </p><p>Ryder’s out of bed, sitting at his desk, sweatshirt and sweatpants strangely intimate, the man carefully private simply by procedure and partially by his composed nature. It has a print on the front, something vintage, faded yellow words, ‘Yellowstone National Park’ with a nuanced picture of mountains in the middle. His bed has been made again, although there are far more boxes of various resources, stacks of datapads and tools spread across the free space. Digital maps are still open, glowing ever so faintly along the walls, the monitor he used when he was on bedrest open to a block of text Reyes can’t read from the angle. Eyes drifting down, his collarbone and the line of his throat visible, Ryder explains, “It’s enough to do it every couple of days for assurance but even every week doesn’t show any resistance.” </p><p>“Have you thought about changing it to an enhanced barrel?”</p><p>“I tried once, but the altered weight made me a little heavier than I liked.” Ryder lifts a toolbox, opening up a slot to press the bottle back into its locked position. “I tend to like to leave my load to things I can drop off in case of an emergency.” His dark eyelashes flick up as he pulls down a datapad from above, “But the new suit does allow for better distribution and a boosted jump jet engine. It’s got kick.” He grins on a curve, glancing up into the video. </p><p>"Acquisition a grenade belt, maybe a pistol, you should have the difference needed.”</p><p>Ryder checks the numbers, reading, and says, impressed, “You’re right.”</p><p>“You usually pull a pistol off someone else anyway.”</p><p>They meet eyes, Ryder half smiling at the recognition. </p><p>“I’ll have to put in an order for that.” Ryder arches back to reach across a box to his left and flinches slightly, gingerly shifting in the chair.</p><p>“Since you’re out of bed, you must be feeling better.” Wind picks up around him, the warbling noise of an Angaran ship landing echoing into the feed. Reyes turns a shoulder to protect the sound. </p><p>“Much. Finally off the pain killers. SAM’s helping mitigate some of the residual soreness but I feel great.”</p><p>“Against Dr. Lexi’s professional judgement.” SAM replies. “You still have a recommended week of bedrest on your medical record.”</p><p>“I can lift my arms above my head and put my chest plate on again, it’s enough to hold some official meetings, establish the outpost and show up at the countless interviews requested of me.” Ryder types into a screen, swiping it away when finished. “Director Tann’s demands are getting out of hand. I’ve got thirty emails in my inbox. Unopened.”</p><p>“Timing and image are everything when in charge.” Reyes replies, “The outpost will be official starting today?”</p><p>“Yeah, Morda’s preparing the naming ceremony. She wants the Pathfinder and the colony shaking hands for the cameras to prove the Initiative’s acknowledging New Tuchanka. Lots of details to map out.” </p><p>“I’m guessing there’s some conflict about the division of authority.”</p><p>Ryder dryly laughs, shaking his head slightly with an indication of his eyes that he’s heard a lot of disagreement over the last week, “Plenty.”</p><p>“What will the Initiative do about The Paradise?”</p><p>Turning his head slightly, Ryder thinks about it, pushing around a box of armor plates, “Morda’s more or less satisfied now that the colony has their own water source from the rain so she’s not interested in disestablishing any Anagaran run economies if unnecessary. I don’t have any reason to do anything other than offer Nexus based resources.”</p><p>How relieved Keema will be upon hearing the news. </p><p>“She might actually want to take on Strogjaw Grog’s old contract. Protection, customers, and unity would be beneficial for both sides.” Ryder continues, half invested in what he’s glancing over, unassuming in his progressive opinions, and his knowledge of the inner workings of Elaaden. He’s taken to his role more than he might notice himself, becoming a stable shelter in the storm that is Andromeda. Whatever anxieties or worries the man has, they’re his and his alone. And SAM’s. </p><p>“You were able to see their written agreement?”</p><p>“It was on his person. When we acquired both his body and surrendered exiles, we swept through his possessions.” Ryder quirks a lip, “Not that any of that went into my official reports.” Those hazel eyes are sharp, two foxes smart about a good catch. </p><p>You’ve changed, Ryder. All those months of protecting protocol, the overwhelming attention to proper filing and accountability, they’ve evolved. Was it all just a dedicated effort to a disguise or has the field given birth to new perspective? Reyes’ heart is thumping beneath his leathered armor. “And the surrendered?”</p><p>“If they want to return to The Paradise, they’re free to. Or join the outpost when it begins building. For now, most of them are camping out beneath the shade of the Tempest. Liam’s been barbequing with them the last few days, making friends.” He lowers the datapad, and says, “But how’s the Port? I know Liam’s been asking about the possibility of an outpost there.”</p><p>The inquiry is not an attempt to gather details unbeknownst to Reyes. It is as straightforward as the inquirer himself. “Sloane has criminalized Oblivion so there’s more havoc than usual in the slums but that’s nothing new to Kadara.”</p><p>“I heard.” Ryder sighs, “The civil unrest does present a level of danger for an outpost.” </p><p>“Danger?” Reyes echoes, amused, “On Kadara?”</p><p>He earns himself a sharp hooded stare but both of them smile, chuckling. </p><p>“Point proven.”</p><p>“That sweatshirt. Since it’s not your job brand, it must be something you brought with you.”</p><p>Ryder glances down, pulling it at one shoulder to look at it better. His expression softens and he says, “Yeah. It’s from Sara. She got it for me on one of her school trips for biology study. They got to research migration of animals and the terrains fit for certain evolutionary chains. I’ve never been there, but she had so many cool pictures. We used to go camping when we were little.” </p><p>Someone knocks on Ryder’s door, whipping his attention around. He stands briefly, going to the door communicator, Cora’s voice coming through. </p><p>“You’ve got a call.”</p><p>“Got it. I’ll be right out.” </p><p>He sits down once more and says, “Gotta go.”</p><p>“I’ll look forward to the feeds covering the outpost.” Reyes says and they log off, the screen folding away. With the video gone, he sees a message from one of his representatives waiting to be read. They’re usually far and few between, their responsibilities and status given because they self-serve and manage their factions with thorough attention to detail without authority looming over a shoulder. The contact is normally top down, the Charlatan laying basic ground work and allowing the factions to develop their mannerisms and styles in order to keep the fog thick and rolling. Each representative has their separate inbox, feeding a loop back into their own locational services to keep their leader’s whereabouts unknown. If Crux is emailing up, there’s a problem. </p><p>Lachlan’s ship has landed, docked and being unloaded, her small form barely visible between the woman Outcast representative, Grayson’s day off, the acquisition’s officer and Alejandro, whose assignment includes her ship now that she’s officially Collective. Across the landing pad, she sweeps the faces, facials neutral, cool indifference, a guarded mask, dark eyes finding him before she does a second sweep. Her expression opens, a nocturnal flower, and her lips move ever so slightly up. The pleasure is mutual even if it’s altered on one side. </p><p>Acquiring more permanent parking and signing off the crates of supplies takes time, leaving opportunity to read Crux’s email from the Draullir base. The Charlatan’s trusted her skill set and her unwavering, unshakeable attitude, nothing able to take the woman by surprise. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t crave violence and plans her personal time accordingly, every box checked and every lock locked without fail. When the base was first being built, barely more than a few lamps and crates full of stolen ammo, she approached the Collective few and said, “I can see it. This place’s future.” Tossed her credits in and never looked back. They share something more than loyalty, a way of life, a kind of nature, Crux never over assuming her bounds and the Charlatan never asking for more than what was capable of their system. She keeps a select few as company, and when further representatives, agents who showed promise, began to arise, she spoke with clarity.</p><p>“There’ll inevitably be someone with a knife behind their back. But the workload was getting heavy and I like long coffee breaks so I’ll take the odds for some delegation. Still, I’ll be sure to lock my door.” </p><p>How he enjoyed the dry humor of that woman. </p><p>Now their base has a reinforced door hidden in the long winding cave depths, clear reception, and a multi-level operational building with a garage and a watch tower. Crux’s office, the clean walls and carefully arranged details of her tastes proves her ambitions but not any underlying vying for hallow glory taken by fire or fame one step away from riding coat tails. She likes her coffee beans fresh, sunrises in the peace of solitude and paperwork done on time and says as much. He’ll keep her as long as she’ll stay, and he’ll make sure to be out of her way to keep her abilities at their fullest potential. Symbiosis between them lets the base thrive and her people eat well, talk careful and don’t need micromanaging. </p><p>
  <em>We’ve got a representative sitting a little too high for their best interest. Nothing seriously out of place yet but I’m seeing clear disregard for actual procedure and miscommunication being labeled as orders from above. They’re testing the waters, seeing where loyalties lie and looking for cracks. They’ll draw more imposters in. Don’t want to scare them away, let them flee back to their hiding hole but it would be best to handle this sooner than later. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Crux</em>
</p><p>Pretending to have the Charlatan’s ear? A long-term undercover mission searching for opportunity due to the Collective’s success? While it reflects poorly on the effort placed into choosing this representative, it proves the wealth and presence of their influence and thus can only do one thing: it compliments Reyes Vidal, master of masks and shadow King of Draullir Cave. This all certainly bodes well for their force if handled correctly. Nobody risks getting flogged to death, dropped ‘accidently’ over a cliff, or shot in the back for a failing company with no resources. What is this person’s connection? Where do they lead back to? If they are connected to the Outcast, they would be their four-leaf clover, a viable reason to take first shot at appropriate provocation. </p><p>Representatives have their own fields, their own corners to prove their names, their worth and are not cheap. He won’t lose good agents to a bad game of Clue, accusing those loyal to their brand and unit. Angaran farmers make their poisons, and Salarians provide fast analysis in their profits, Krogan stand guard, and their human and Asari make their numbers. He tells Crux to keep her eyes open but to herself, to wait for a clear sign that will paint the traitor’s hands red either figuratively or literally. </p><p>Lachlan finds him standing at Kralla’s Song counter, flipping through Collective comms and she slides up next to him, “I could’ve gone straight to the Nexus.” She murmurs, watching him lift a finger to Umi who slides her a whiskey. </p><p>He glides his own half-drunk glass towards hers, clinking it nicely at the rim. “I wanted to congratulate you on your first mission as a Collective agent.”</p><p>She slowly takes the glass, eyes flicking up to him, almost black even in the light and she smiles, curly hair coiling about her forehead in perfectly circles. They drink and he says, “You’ll want the physical layout on a datapad as well, in the case you need to go offline. They’ll have heat sensors that you can manage through with the right thermal lining but the digital footprint will be something you’ll need to be more careful about. If you’re not too tired, we can meet my contact.” </p><p>“I’m alright.” Lachlan assures. She swallows the rest of her whiskey in one drink, and leans in, gloved finger tapping the rim of her empty glass, “I brought you a little something.” Sliding the memory card into his inner pocket right above the line of his belt, from beneath hooded lids, she says, “I’m sure you’ll find it valuable.” Her fingers leave the trace of touch, the brush of nearness. Proactive and on time, he can’t ask for a better operative, especially new. They share a long look, her hand drawing away achingly slow, folding under her arm. The Charlatan will provide a sizable reward to her cockpit for later. </p><p>“I hope it isn’t a virus.” He says, the presence of the card distinct against his suit. </p><p>She almost laughs, a breath of amusement and she looks at him fondly, whiskey burning on her brown cheeks, “Nothing of the sort. More like,” Eyes drifting up in thought, Lachlan pauses for the exact word, “Assurance that the information I brought back is accurate.” </p><p>“How thoughtful of you. I’ll be sure to give it a thorough examination.”</p><p>She enjoys the way those last few words leave his lips, rolling along his tongue, giving fantasy the rush of reality’s physical sensation. The compliment doesn’t go unnoticed either. A notification beeps and he drinks his remaining whiskey, straightening up, “My contact is waiting.” And they leave, glasses side by side on the counter, gleaming in the sun beams, two mirrors of each other. </p><p>Xxx</p><p>Ho-Sook offers a copy of the Nexus grids, silky black hair twisted into a bun with a knife to hold it in place. She’s got her chest plate off, white, thick strapped tank on with a smudge of blood across the stomach. They meet beneath the low rising first level of platforms, at the abandoned Oblivion den, her cigarette hot. </p><p>“Glad we caught each other. The trial drug is proving itself a little more difficult than expected.” She sighs, breathing smoke, “It’s no simple task getting quality ingredients.” Her current work settling into the backseat of her focus, she finally gets a good look at Lachlan, standing a step behind Reyes. “She’s perfect.” Ho-Sook murmurs, holding her elbow with her free hand, “When do you leave?” </p><p>“Earliest, tomorrow.” Lachlan states, “I’m getting the cargo of my ship cleaned and prepped for camouflage. It takes up to eight hours and I’m dying for a shower.” </p><p>She’s earned her right to explain herself, the power of position allowing strength to square her shoulders and her mouth. But there’s no hostility, simply two Kadara grown dealers sizing one another up for their own safety and security. Green neon light beams across their cheek bones, glinting in their eyes and the waters pooling in uneven ground. </p><p>Ho-Sook crooks a smile, putting the cigarette between it, “I second that sentiment.” The trickle of friendship runs between them. She gets Lachlan’s contact, her shipment bypassing the middle man now that the legs of the trip have been hired. They’ll meet at Spirit’s Ledge when the cargo’s been secured, Reyes now merely the means of a connection inspired. He’ll receive the rest of his credits when Lachlan’s entered the atmosphere and she’ll be paid through both sides to assure she finishes the job. They all go their separate ways; Lachlan with a secured place to clean up and sleep through Nelan, and Ho-Sook returning to Dr. Nakamoto’s side to continue providing medical service to patients. </p><p>Reyes settles in with his bottle of whiskey, the sunset and a screen on his favorite rooftop, feeding in the livestream of the Elaaden outpost opening ceremony. Across the bottom, script for the next arena competition flies by, an advertisement sitting in the top corner with a Krogan in a dominant muscle pose to sell cannons. They’re still setting up the memorial of the first piece of construction, wind flicking sand up in swirling rolls. Behind the various Krogan and vehicles parked is the glowing red of New Tuchanka, the location of the outpost not a coincidence. Several Initiative grunts move past the camera, discussing tents for the evening cool, pointing around the areas with sink holes and the distance to the colony. Their numbers are far and few between. </p><p>Taking a swig, Reyes waits, typing emails while the stream picks up steam. He codes a few easy jobs, plants several leads in the local comms and takes into account the multiple images of Sloane and Kaetus drinking at Kralla’s Song together at a table from different angles. Comments ding down the feed quick. </p><p>&gt;They’re awfully close for two people just working together.&lt;</p><p>&gt;Kaetus is just a yes man to Sloane’s every whim. It isn’t surprising he’s having drinks with her.&lt;</p><p>Keema messages him, telling him to call when he has time. Glancing at the still mostly vacant screen, he puts her line in and she answers almost immediately, only her voice feeding in. </p><p>“Vidal.” She greets, Angara voices in their native language echoing behind her. Knowing Keema and her consistent schedule she is at the Angaran cafeteria, a small, but long room with low ceilings and seating on the floor to take breaks, dream and enjoy cultural foods. The location is near the Angaran landing pad to provide pilots and travelers a destination welcoming and convenient, always sweet-smelling tobacco remnants lingering on their suits after they exit. </p><p>“What could the grand Angaran council woman want with one lone smuggler?” </p><p>“Infamous smuggler with ties across Heleus.” She corrects curtly, “Using our labels are we now? Is there something you might want, trying so shallowly to compliment me?” </p><p>“It is possible that I will ask a favor in the near future.”</p><p>“Your favors cost things. But I will see what I can do.” She moves onto her own inquiry, “Do you have stock in Angaran wine?” </p><p>If he dips into the Charlatan’s well, “It’s possible.”</p><p>“Provide me a bottle. I am finally holding a seat among the Outcast officials.” </p><p>“By tonight?”</p><p>“You have till tomorrow.” </p><p>“Consider it done.” Noise on his portable screen picks up, a dull roaring as several massive vehicles depart from the colony towards the camera’s location. Red paint is smeared heavily on the hoods, booming drums bouncing off the walls of the sinkhole to announce Morda’s oncoming arrival. “Have you heard anything from Annea?”</p><p>Keema’s voice softens, “Oh yes, it is not official yet, but she feels a fragile optimism about the future hand in hand with New Tuchanka.” </p><p>“The Pathfinder talked of a contract once held by Strogjaw Grog. It may be perfect timing to step into drawn lines of well-manufactured friendship while people are still drunk on victories.” </p><p>“Yes…” She murmurs thoughtfully, “He may have our people’s best interest at heart through and through. And he has someone’s complete attention, doesn’t he?” </p><p>Nothing he says will help him escape the prick of truth disguised as playful banter. “Can you blame me?” For good measure and just the right heat, he splashes another healthy mouthful of whiskey down.</p><p>“Oh no, anyone would want to be where you sit. Please, relax. Settle in.” She croons, her teasing ramping, “Tell me more Initiative branded information as you bed their highest-ranking soldier. Nothing could please me more.”</p><p>Another swig, more pleasant heat, “I came here to play big.” </p><p>“Always games with you.” She notices his choice of words, “What is the final prize at the end of everything?” </p><p>The silence is conveniently or inconveniently placed and they both register there is no crafted response. To Keema’s sociability and restraint, she leaves it an open-ended question. Changing the subject, she offers, “I saw the Collective greenhouse. The soil may be dry but dare I say, promising.”</p><p>“A work in the making.”</p><p>“I will reach out to my Havarl sisters and brothers. They may have advice. And access to Nexus planting files. Speak again soon.” She clicks off the line, leaving him to his own devices and without mulling over the more sensitive pieces of their conversation, he looks back into his screen. </p><p>Morda and her Shaman have dismounted, several big armored guards standing proudly at the chest. Horns made from the bones of defeated Fiends blare on either side of her caravan, playing low, growling notes to buzz through the body, and silence any talking in order to announce the beginning of their ceremony. Morda is wearing red, her armor clacking nicely with the indication of a certain Flophouse leader’s death, his bones strapped to her headpiece and his weapon holstered. She respects a fellow warrior no matter the loyalties and carries his story with her, a Krogan at every one of his four now unbeating hearts. The Pathfinder is not present, although some of his teammates appear on screen, Drack coming forward to greet Morda with the casual friendliness of a clan member high up on the chain. They speak, voices masked by the horns and step to a temporary Krogan shelter, guards following behind a step. </p><p>Where is Ryder? Still on the ship? His phantom scan is quick to find activity on the Tempest, usual electrical currents and engines in place but the video conference is feeding a response. Reyes slips into the call, undetected because he knows this signal. Director Tann’s office line. He gets both the Director’s feed and the Tempest’s feed side by side. The wonders he can do with this cloaking technology and the power he’ll feed back underground is as intoxicating as the alcohol. </p><p>Tann’s thin lips are pressed in an unsatisfied line, the expression of distaste evident even along the digital blue of his outline. “I won’t sign off on it, and it certainly won’t be funded through the Nexus, no matter Morda’s standpoint on the matter.”</p><p>“Re-establishing trust and favor amongst our allies is a vital step to promoting life throughout Heleus-“ Ryder begins, and Tann quickly cuts him short, sharpening each word, “You don’t have the authorization to make these decisions.”</p><p>This effectively collapses the argument, Ryder well aware his collar will quickly become a noose at the right angle. He waits, and Director Tann clears his throat behind a thin hand, refolding them behind his back to present some pretense of controlled emotion that is clearly clawing its way into their discussion, “I’ll put Kesh and Addison on the call. You’ll understand patience, of course.”</p><p>It’s less of a request and more of a knife at the lower back demanding the good soldier remember how to say his ‘yes sirs’ when he obviously has more to say. The air is dense. They stare at each other. Director Tann wants an answer. </p><p>“Sir.” The Pathfinder finally complies, word flat, and Director Tann logs off briefly to collect the Nexus team. Staying on the line, Ryder turns away, and, anger flashing through like fire on the sulfur lakes of Kadara, he demands, “Smother it, SAM. I can’t do this otherwise.”</p><p>“I’m already masking a large percentage of your natural emotional reaction currently, Pathfinder.”</p><p>Nose crinkling, mouth curling, he squeezes fists, “I’m going to say something I regret in the heat of the moment, SAM. Just until- until we get this outpost off the ground. I can’t fuck this up.” Hearing Ryder say ‘fuck’ in such an aggressive way flushes Reyes stomach hot. The man rarely curses, this being the first he’s heard. </p><p>“If you get another headache, I must request we see Dr. Lexi for treatment. But I will up the masking. Tell me when you feel calm enough and I will monitor your vitals to set the standard.”</p><p>Closing his eyes, breathing in, Ryder nods briefly, “Got it.” They share a private moment only for the two of them then the visible sharpness of his stance rounds and he sighs out, “There. That’s good.” His eyes come back open, hands sliding back behind his back. </p><p>The call rings in, three holograms glowing blue along with Ryder’s. </p><p>“Pathfinder.” Addison says bluntly, and Kesh nods, “Congratulations on establishing the outpost.”</p><p>“There won’t be an outpost without proper clearance.” Tann reminds them critically. </p><p>“What seems to be the problem, Director?” Kesh asks levelly, the question a political unstoppable object against his immoveable wall. </p><p>“It presents too high a risk to allow an exiled Krogan from the Elaaden colony to assume position of mayor of a newly determined outpost vulnerable to attack and sabotage. Morda spoke of placing one of her warriors as head of the Initiative post. It’s unfathomable and logistically a nightmare.”</p><p>“The Krogan were a part of the Nexus operation.” Kesh defends, “There are still those working in your research facilities and putting their lives on the line in a variety of positions, including military defense and outpost protection. They are not a lost exiled faction of traitors for you to sweep out of the picture simply because of disagreement and power struggles from a year ago.”</p><p>Addison nods slowly, listening with her arms folded tightly across her chest. She will have an opinion, as usual but she is waiting for each person to position themselves on their hill. </p><p>“So, you’ll find it appropriate the outpost remain unnamed, a branch of New Tuchanka as well then, Superintendent Kesh?” Tann inquires icily, sneer evident even through the pixels. “Let them ration their supplies however they want from the Nexus while they’re at it? Let’s not forget the threat of attack we had prior.”</p><p>“New Tuchanka is providing the protection and has worked alongside the Pathfinder, taking care of the Flophouse to provide better stability to all of those living on Elaaden, including the Angara present.”</p><p>“After she nearly crushed him in her unnecessary rage.”</p><p>Ryder speaks up, “Misunderstandings put aside, we’ve got a fragile and important relationship on the line here. We lose nothing allowing the Krogan the name. New Tuchanka is an honorable title and we could provide better perspective on the Initiative by allowing Krogan voices to be heard.”</p><p>Addison nods, agreeing, “We want that outpost. We need the placement. Stopping for fuel, there’s clear signs when it’s storming, and otherwise blue skies for easy landing.” She’s brief, and all logic, “If there’s uncertainty about the Krogan loyalties, allowing them the name gives us better transparency. We’ve done this everywhere else. It doesn’t prevent protocol being put into place once we have our groundwork laid down.”</p><p>Kesh has been powering through blatant and sinisterly disguised prejudice since the Scourge hit and the failure of hope as they knew it. She does not flinch at poorly concealed bigotry that fosters Tann’s inability to give even the slightest slack. “An outpost with ties to all races will promote our unity against the bigger threat, the Kett and the environment.” </p><p>“Unless a new candidate is pulled forward, I’m putting all authorizations on hold. Including the Pathfinder disembarking the Tempest.” A hard ball, the Director makes it clear he’s not going to allow Ryder to go behind his back and say something with the Initiative brand as his cloak to force the Salarian’s hand. He’ll prevent any large face from making the call, stalling enough for the stress to build and someone to fold. If even Addison has a foot angled towards the Pathfinder’s call, the director’s bias is showing. </p><p>“You’re not serious.” Ryder protests, voice still even although the offense proves his indignation. “The ceremony has already started.”</p><p>“I’m well aware.” </p><p>Kesh draws her line in the sand, “It can’t be a Salarian. Morda will never accept.”</p><p>“Prodromos and Taerve Uni are both led by humans, another outpost with a human presents a bias.” Tann says dryly in response. </p><p>Addison purses her lips momentarily, and says, “A high ranking person graduated from the military could arouse the support of a warlord if they have the right qualifications. I nominate Kariste Archana. She is a respected huntress with plenty of intergalactic experience on and off the field but is less likely to be perceived a threat as an eligible Turian or a human might be.”</p><p>“Archana is a thoughtful choice.” Kesh acknowledges, “She’s well spoken about her disagreements with the shortcomings on the Nexus. She can offer insight and be the bridge between communications and resources. Instead of a blatant figurehead, she might inspire healthy boundaries. While Kandros has a few qualified men, it might give the wrong impression for someone directly out of the militia to lead this outpost. Archana will reassure this is not just a tactical position.”</p><p>“Barely kept her job with all her inappropriate uncensored opinions..” Tann mutters but concedes, cognizant of the limitations of stand-offs. He’s kept his bare minimum in tact and that will need to be enough for now; No matter if the Salarian wants to vanish the entire colony from the map and forgo the outpost himself, the pieces are already too set in to change their trajectory. “Alright, offer Archana the position and educate Morda of our agreement clauses.” </p><p>“Then I’m signing off.” Ryder states, “The cameras are already rolling.”</p><p>“We’ll need to talk about that suit of yours and regulations later, Pathfinder. You’re long overdue for a visit to the Nexus.” Tann informs him and logs off the screen.</p><p>“I’ll be waiting for the official report, Pathfinder.” Addison is next, clearly busy and her hologram shrinks into nothing. Kesh follows suit, offering a minimal smile and a nod, keeping her more opinionated words to under the table conversations. </p><p>Sighing heavily, Ryder slumps against the console, hands holding him up and his hologram ripples at the movement. “You can- Can we- hold out for a couple more hours like this, SAM?”</p><p>“It is not advisable but it is doable.” He pauses, a stretch of potent silence. “You will need to face these feelings eventually, Pathfinder.”</p><p>“I know.” He says, resigned, “Just not right now.” He signs off, and Reyes’ hacking screen goes blank. </p><p>Roaring erupts down below in the markets, the Elaaden stream picking up viewers now that the horns have finished their playing. Morda is giving her speech to the people, telling of painful injustices they’ve had to face, about the dark space that threatened to swallow their future and the light that is the Krogan’s resilience. At her shoulder the Shaman stands steady, officiating the moment. In the sand, with a clear construction rope tied about it is the first pole for a heat deflecting passage way that will travel between the colony and the outpost. Resting against it is the hammer that each important figure will use to pound it into the ground. Morda stands behind it, making a historical picture of galactic relations and perseverance. The scar at her throat is whitish in the light of day. </p><p>Near the end of her monologue, Ryder shows up in the Nomad both him and Cora stepping out. She leans into Ryder, white suit pretty against his dark black, hair glimmering in the sun rays. They walk side by side, and are welcomed with open arms and Morda’s loud, booming greeting.</p><p>“Here the Pathfinder walks! Defender of New Tuchanka and slayer of Strogjaw Grog!” She announces and the Krogan present bellow their delight, respect earned through the violence and shedding of important blood. He approaches through the dividing crowd, camera angle zooming into his uniform expression, the faded scar at his jaw from when he was shot in the jungles hardly visible now. No residual anger, no frustration, not even a pinch between the brows in the sunlight, just neutrality. </p><p>Stepping beside Morda, he offers her his hand, and they shake over the symbolic first pole, shutters rattling through the crowd. Finally, a smile touches his expression, but the young man who beamed about Prodromos with his full chest is not here. He talks to Morda as pictures are taken, some by official Nexus reporters, others with paid access. Their words cannot be heard, but it does dull the warlord’s glimmering hopeful eyes. She is quick to keep what he’s told her from affecting their celebration but it is not good news. </p><p>Ryder steps up, announcing the good will that is going to grow from New Tuchanka’s Initiative base. Together they’ll thrive, make a golden world with their own hands. They do not announce the leadership, the discussion still midway. Instead Morda raises the hammer and offers it to Ryder first. </p><p>“To our continued beneficial comradery.” She says, smile now all angles. </p><p>Ryder takes the handle, “To our future together.” For a moment, Reyes is sure Ryder is talking with SAM, and then he swings with his full shoulder and arm, the noise reverberating, pinging across the sand dunes far and wide. Morda flashes her teeth, impressed, and says, “Challenge accepted.” He passes the hammer and she tests her grip, allowing Ryder a chance to step back. With a roar and an overhead sweep, she clangs the pole almost done fully into its slot and mimics the echo. Clapping and cheering finish their ceremony, Morda waving her arms wide, “To New Tuchanka’s Initiative outpost!” </p><p>Others are given the opportunity to mark their names into pieces of the outpost structures and put their hammers to the test, incentivizing them to join the effort into building. Liam is talking with newly transitioned Flophouse scavengers, providing basic rations and uniforms and the common decency of a chance in a different light. He stands strong, feet apart and smile fluid, friendly. </p><p>An interviewer approaches, her expression carefully manufactured and she asks for the time to answer a few questions. Liam turns to her, brown eyes bright with hope and excitement. “Of course.”</p><p>She confirms his position, his relation to the Pathfinder. </p><p>Then she asks, “Who are all these people you have with you?”</p><p>Looking across the shadowed, now even grim faces and drawn mouths, he doesn’t hesitate to say, “They’re our field experts. With their experience out on the terrain of Elaaden we won’t have any issue adapting our vehicles to the sand or getting lost. Newly acquired and waiting for their chance to secure housing.”</p><p>The interviewer nods delicately, giving them a tentative glance, “Of course…” She pushes a smooth blond piece of hair back behind her ear, “They wouldn’t happen to be exiled Nexus people?” It’s a trap question, the only humans, Turians, Asari and Salarians out in the sands of Elaaden those of the mutiny. </p><p>Liam chuckles, shrugging loosely, “When the rules go to shit, we make new rules. I’m not risking losing good men and women because they wanted to eat a year ago. We’re here now and the respect is needed both ways. I think that’s enough questions.” He cuts anything she has to say short, and quickly she retreats, letting Liam refresh the morale and flash the freshly acquired pistol appointed by Nexus recon specialists. </p><p>Drack is talking construction with Morda, big hands sweeping a picture as he stands over the sinkhole. He uses his hands to indicate sizes, and Morda mirrors him, both Nakmor expressive with their bodies as well as their colorful language. He has been to the medic for his injuries from the Flophouse, arm moving fluidly. It seems the stream will end soon, trickling details the final view. Then a vehicle comes forward, driving through the sand, plumes of dust erupting behind the wheels. </p><p>Heads turn, the slim and quick moving transportation clearly aged and Angaran. It pulls into position at the edge of the crowd and the driver steps out, a tall, dark Angara with a long, old scar across his nose. He opens the door of the back seat, a slender leg stepping out into the sand.</p><p>Annea looks across the outpost, assessing its viability and its people before she walks through the almost silent crowd watching in interest, awe or mild surprise. She is well known, and she does not invoke half-witted comments or bland disrespect. War is in her blood and the Angara water merchant has made that known since the arrival of the Milky Way. Behind her walks the guns to her ever-present threat, several Angara in dark, leathered armor. </p><p>“You have inspired unity where there was once division, Pathfinder.” She speaks, standing at the ceremonial pole, looking over a shoulder to the man standing beneath a temporary shade tarp. “Come, tell me that you offer the same freedoms you give your own.” She lifts the hammer, rolling it by her wrist to test its weight, “Prove those words you speak do not fall short of all those wanting for life.” For a slender arm, she has strength, life in the desert building hard muscle. </p><p>He approaches, sun on his nose and stands before her. Morda returns to the front, “The Pathfinder is not the only person to answer to.” She says firmly, and Annea flicks her gaze up and down the matriarch, indicating to her with the hammer, “You already have my respect. We will find like terms, as I did with Strogjaw Grog.” Eyelids lowering ever so slightly, she finishes, “The ones with the perceived upper hand must answer to <em>us</em>.” </p><p>Her guards set their guns, safeties still in place but gazes hardened. If going out here in a blaze of glory is their final statement, renouncing themselves to such a fate is more an honor than a curse. Roekaar level vengeance is just beneath the surface, magma burning under their cold exterior. Innocent people stand, waiting, some aware of the fragility of the moment and others murmuring curiously. </p><p>Both sets of eyes turn to the Pathfinder, Morda seeing the value and logic in Annea’s perspective. The wound of abandonment, the inhumane disregard is still as bruised as Ryder’s ribs. Angara and Krogan watching, pressure achingly present, the universe settles onto Ryder’s shoulders. Tann can attempt to restrict, force the man’s hand, he can tie ropes of jargon to his feet and still yet he will never quite harness the raw power of the Pathfinder on the field. The man’s injury will affect any attempt to save bystanders if he does not provide to Annea’s demands but this is between him and a select few, an ace that can only be played against him if made known. </p><p>“The Initiative formally acknowledges both The Paradise and New Tuchanka’s authority on the outpost and we offer any support we can moving forward. Success is contingent on sharing resources and banding together.” Ryder finally says, melting the tension, spreading it thin. “Welcome to our alliance.”</p><p>Annea turns her gaze over to Morda and she says sweetly, if the Angara is capable of such a tone, “I have great things to offer you and your colony. We have secrets of the land to trade.” </p><p>Morda, realizing the ally she is about to make, grins, “Krogan give back what they take. You won’t regret finding a friend in Nakmor Morda.” She offers the pole to Annea and the Angara swings over her shoulder at a wide angle, letting a pretty ding ripple the air. </p><p>“The Paradise gives Krogan the freedom to enter our clubhouse!” The water merchant announces, pleased eyes folded at the ends, “You have job security under my wing of shade!” While she does not appear the rallying type, the excitement that responds to her firm words is genuine and real and she flushes with pride, radiating good energy. </p><p>“This is a glorious day, Pathfinder, Clan Leader Morda. Please, when the sky grows dim, come to visit. We will talk and trade.” Annea hands the hammer back, earning praise at their new improved relations as she passes through back to her vehicle. </p><p>Word spreads hot, a skewer for the tender fleshes of Kadara. Elaaden, a place for the cruelest, the most sun baked, vile exiles ready to fall into the pits of hell for their next credit is shaking hands with the Pathfinder. An outpost brings traffic, and whether intentions are honest or underhanded, traffic carries supplies and that feeds hungry people. Sloane sipping her whiskey, overlooking an outdated way of coexisting, unaware its expiration date, and enjoying the company of her right-hand man does not sit well with those thin and sleepless. Critique is thickening. Forcing credits from the very people she defended by bullet for soul sucking drugs to numb them and demanding thanks when the bruises purpling flesh were expected, given by her Outcast fist rather than out in the badlands is beginning to sit beneath an unacceptable standard. Ripping the very throat out of her own provisions, choking the life out of people still desperate for Oblivion makes the contrast to the Pathfinder all the more visible. Reminiscing becomes transparent. Things look better when Ryder’s around and people are beginning to be unafraid to say it. </p><p>Riding out to Draullir caves after a couple shots has the adrenaline thick, the danger, the lost second of reflex and the speed all a rush Reyes won’t deny gives him chills in all the right places. Aquila is standing guard, although standing is a loose term for it; he’s clearly watching a screen with his dirty, steel-toe boots kicked up onto the railing of the watch tower. He glances over the side, at the beacon flashing for Collective agents to communicate entrance and, one loc hanging over his dark brow with a glittering gold cuff, he grins in recognition, “Vidal! Come up here. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen you.” He waves the man up, and after loading the bike into the disguised vehicle garage masked as another wall of rock, he ascends the ladders. </p><p>Portable chairs, an old but quality screen and a flask to keep him company, Aquila offers the other seat with a graceful hand, every finger adorned with a ring. “You’ll forgive a man for being a little lonely. Doesn’t twilight do that to ya?” He hands the silver flask over, and Reyes drinks lightly from it, tasting tequila. </p><p>From their vantage point, the badlands stretch on for miles, dipping between unrefined mountains and gnarled fixtures of rock. The foliage has greened since, softened beneath the foot and stopped giving such vicious rashes new recruits no longer share the reasonable hesitance to touch anything without proper protection. Above head, further than the human ear can hear, ships move back and forth, gliding through darkening skies. </p><p>“Crux has you on guard duty?” Reyes looks at the screen still playing low and sees the man’s watching an old film from the Milky Way. The question makes Aquila chuckle and he rocks back onto two legs in his chair, “She likes the sunrises and I like the sunsets.” He sighs, deep brown eyes moving along the horizon, “But yeah, tonight’s my turn. Till Lynx trades me for midnight. She likes to sit under the stars, says it gives her time to think.” </p><p>He glances along the dirt path beaten down and noticeable only because of its crude tracks to see a Collective transportation unit. “Would be giving these shifts to new recruits what with the influx of people but just recently someone overlooked a non-Collective surveyor. Said he was just collecting baryte samples when he was questioned but the guy was deep, and hardly had a tool on him for extraction. Sure,” He gives the driver green, allowing him to open the garage door and pull in, vanishing behind the lowering rock camouflage, “Could be traveling light but it’s the fact that he chose <em>this</em> entrance that’s keeping the questions coming.”</p><p>“Under whose watch?”</p><p>“Forgot his name. One of Dorado’s guys though.” </p><p>Reyes nods slowly, “Might’ve fallen asleep.” He comments casually and Aquila laughs, “Hope he saw some good dreams because he was scooping shit out of the Adhi cages last I saw him.”</p><p>Reyes omni-tool buzzes and he glances down, Ryder’s name flashing. Aquila takes another swig, eyes on the screen but he says from the corner of his mouth which is curved in a knowing smile, “Girlfriend troubles? You can answer it you know. No judgment here.” </p><p>He can’t, not here. The risk of Aquila, then Crux discovering who has direct personal ties to the Pathfinder will put too harsh a spotlight on his typically unassuming, self-centered demeanor. He puts the call on silent, and says, “It can wait.”</p><p>“I get it.” Aquila ties his locs up, and shakes his head minutely, “Got me a woman back on the Port. Sometimes I just need to hear her voice, other times,” His gaze stays locked onto the moving images but they’re actually far away, in a memory, a place of comfort, “It’s better just to keep things separate.”</p><p>Reyes decidedly leaves the topic there, the less said, the less to be spoken about it later. Before he gets up to leave, the man looks over his shoulder and says, “Could you let Alejandro know I’ve got his share of the bets from last week? Keep forgetting about it.” </p><p>“I’ll do that.”</p><p>The cave cools his head, solitude, shadow blanketing the world for thought. The surveyor might’ve been an innocent prospector, naïve, lucky but such chances are slim. It’s more than a gamble to reach these tunnels, and there are far easier targets for quick mining closer to the safety of civilized walls. Lacking at least the semblance of a performance, a costume, is either a beginner’s mistake or a paid job gone noticed. If this was merely a man looking to get the highest quality rocks the offense would be understandable. The Collective was quick to rope these caves off as their trade and without knowing of the inner depths, that could be enough to draw greed their way. The timing is everything, suspicion lining every movement now that there is a wolf in sheep’s skin among them. </p><p>Or maybe they are a sheep in wolf’s skin, surrounded by predators. </p><p>Reyes enters through the main doors, and is greeted by a pale Salarian with a twitchy hand. She knows him, but still she jerks for her gun, “Vidal!” She breathes, and signs him in on the stationed computer after loosening up the nerves in her arms. Hands moving, she looks at him, his reflection staring back in her glossy eyes, “What brings you all the way out here so late? It <em>is</em> late, isn’t it? Can hardly tell the time anymore down here…” She mutters to herself behind a hand then jumps her focus back to the small talk. </p><p>“Business as usual.” He waits for her to finish, the code beeping in recognition, filing him into the roster. Now that he’s passed the terminal, he walks in, automatically copying the logs to his omni-tool for later approval. The walkway has been improved recently, steel plates lining the descent into the base, stairs finally cleanly cut into the stone. Several agents walk past him, speaking low about the Outcast, and a recent capture of one of their own, how he’s lost sight in one eye and a few fingers but managed to keep his tongue. The methods of torture, and the hushed disgust, spark necessary anger beneath their whispers, promises of revenge not far behind. </p><p>No longer illuminated by stolen construction lamps, their cavern is flush with installation. Insulated walls built for temperature control line the tall cavern to help regulate their spore containment bridge and ward off the cold from the depths of Draullir. Bunks have been built snuggly into the higher pockets of the cave, elevators available to the multi floors. Laughter trickles down from above, a Turian and a human talking against the railings of bunk A, the woman with a cigarette in hand and her hair pulled into a loose bun. Maybe lovers, maybe not, but there is a certain level of safety here for such idealistic things. The Collective is not the loosely held together band of likeminded people with a similar vision pulling small jobs in order to purchase the bare necessities. This is an entire order, one that can withstand attack, both mentally and physically. </p><p>The vehicle containment sector roars with the sound of spraying water, a sound that used to be constant when there was far more sulfur and toxic gas turned to clouds that needed to be wiped clean once entering the base. With the vault running, the cost of clean water has decreased and its amount has at least doubled, and the jobs that once were in place for safety have now been delegated to other areas including infiltration in Outcast ranks, frequency monitoring and security. Crux has a datapad in hand, standing on the ground level with Lynx at her side, a panel open at one of the elevated structural beams where all their wiring, electrical and not, as well as their intricate security system routs into the main building. Guards who do not look like guards linger about, watching, channeling information through the various comms as deemed appropriate. Here there is no reason to bulk up, flash all their fire power and snarl at every passing person; there is assurance in knowing someone is always watching. </p><p>Crux glances up, her conversation lulling, datapad light shimmering on her pale face and short eyelashes. Her thick brown hair is perfectly arranged, not a hair out of place, following the line of her cheek. She sees him approaching, thinly green eyes neither welcoming nor distrusting. Lynx on the other hand, regards him with coolly masked disdain, closing the panel with a strong push to lock it into place. </p><p>“What are you doing here, Vidal?” Crux asks, gliding her datapad into the side pocket at her hip where several others sit and she buttons it closed, brown gloves pristine. They’ve been acquainted since the Port’s fire died down and Kadara showed a vague sense of promise, his presence as a supplier known as much as his reputation for sleeping around, and keeping him in a conveniently limited perspective amongst his Collective peers. </p><p>“I have something to pick up.” He says, vague but no one thinks anything of that from an information broker. </p><p>Typing a quick note on her omni-tool, accent strong, Crux says, “Who would have thought you’d still be around after all this time?” She doesn’t mean to actually draw blood with the poke, and her eyes, which see everything and give nothing away show a faint glimmer of professional friendliness; they’ve been together through thick and thin, even at arm’s length and half their relationship in shadow. “No bigger or better things coming your way?”</p><p>He offers her a smile, one that has always worked on new recruits but never on her. “I like it here.” </p><p>Lynx barely conceals her threatening sneer but she manages and leans into Crux’s ear, whispering, blatantly ignoring Reyes. She’s more than wary of him, ironically, as she answers to him when he calls but she is steadfast, reliable and he appreciates that she doubts men like him. She should doubt men like him. While they speak briefly, Vidal sees representative Dorado above walking along one of the supporting bridges between the mushroom farm and the weapons chamber which only representatives have access to. Her long dark brown hair, parted in the middle, is pulled beneath her suit’s high collar, her strides long and confident.</p><p>“Business needs my attention, if you’ll excuse me.” Crux says finally, and she takes the stairs, Lynx following, and Reyes moves towards the acquisition hall where he pays for a storage room to hold various deals, cargo and other supplies that he’s collected over the months. </p><p>Around his shoulder passes another representative, a Turian, Arlus Batus, weapons specialist and new recruit trainer. He has several active raiders alongside him, his voice clear as he tells them his orders, and the weight of his steps make a distinct impression because of his one prosthetic leg he lost back before the Andromeda mission. Reyes continues through the cave, finding his door, and unlocks it with a passcode. The lights are automatic, and he steps inside, looking for his bike cargo bin that holds all his technology from his visits with Knight. </p><p>“You called?” A thick, melting voice says from the doorway and Reyes looks over his shoulder to a man leaning on the frame with his arms crossed. His black eyes don’t shine, intense under dense eyebrows, one with a heavy, jagged scar through it. He has abundant, glossy black hair with a wave to it, and a rising burn scar from his collar coming up across his neck. Radwan Blackbyrn, one of Reyes’ first contacts and a man who can look upon the Charlatan’s face and know it. </p><p>Tossing the sniper a can from a top shelf left for him, Reyes crooks his fingers to invite him in. The door glides shut as Radwan catches the black coffee easily. He leans back on one of the containers, “I’ve been waiting.” It cracks hard, and he swallows, staring over the slender can. </p><p>“We’ve got a bit of a detour.” Reyes replies, lifting a small steel case from the box he had been searching for and slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll show you.” </p><p>Radwan finishes his coffee, deliberately placing it on a container as a mark he’s been here and they leave, letting the door auto-lock. </p><p>“Fifteen minutes.”</p><p>Radwan vanishes, boots hardly making a sound as he finds a quiet place to wait until he can also leave the base. Reyes walks the opposite direction, his route going past the weapons chamber, and he sees the light is on, a green light up above the doorframe to indicate someone is inside. He descends, passing the Angara few who are mingling near the stairs, murmuring of bad omens and of ominous star signs. They pay him no mind, unafraid of him listening, their words a mixture of their own language. Unbeknownst to many, he can translate. </p><p>When they are together again, it is outside in the winding passages of Draullir, out of range from the door and deep enough not to be seen at the entrance. </p><p>“We have a mole.” Reyes says, his man standing in the shadows of a large stalactites, listening. “And someone sniffing around the caves. They say they’re digging for baryte.”</p><p>Radwan slowly drags a finger across the scraggly rocks protruding from the floor, rubbing the dust between his fingers, “Interesting plan considering the baryte in these caves is in the east tunnels. For a mole,” His dark eyes meld into the shadow, teeth cracking between the darkness, “They’ve either got a bad nose, or they’re sniffing for something else.” His pronunciation along the s’s is extended, drawn out, cutting the vowels. </p><p>Reyes leads him into another tunnel, parallel to the vehicle road on the other side of the cave wall and then a door. A door that only reacts to his omni-tool, one completely arranged to his presence. It pings, leading to a staircase, and they enter, leaving the caves behind for the Charlatan’s office. Ascending, Reyes takes the office chair, and Radwan settles against the desk so he can see the monitor screen. </p><p>He pulls up the surveillance feed, scrubs through it, to find the surveyor, and says, “There he is.” A Salarian, methodically testing the walls, putting his hands on rocks with a certain level of understanding. Definitely not mining, not a sample of mineral to be found within his reach. He spends an hour by himself in the caves before someone spots him on their way in. A human, short, with an eyepatch, and they briefly talk, the Salarian folding his hands over and over in a nervous twitch. He’s led out, the agent clear about his intentions, hand on his gun as he follows. </p><p>“H-m.” Radwan takes in the details, eyes unmoving from the screen. “Seems amateurish.” </p><p>Before leaving, the Salarian takes one long look over his shoulder, face set in determination and the agent has to draw his gun to make him step out. </p><p>“You want me to find him?” </p><p>“As well as who he works for.” </p><p>His long, black gloved hands tap rhythmically from pinky to ring finger on the desk surface, “And I’ll get to…<em>take care</em> of this problem?” </p><p>“Make it look like an accident. If he really is an amateur, no one will notice. If he’s someone with connections, they’ll come looking for him.” </p><p>Radwan straightens up, “Gives me another good reason to go to the Port.”</p><p>Reyes, swiveling in his chair, asks, “Your other reason being?” </p><p>The man puts his first two fingers on either side of his mouth then sticks out his tongue, smirking through the gesture before he leaves, the office door silent behind him. The sniper has been by Reyes’ side, on and off the field, since landing on Kadara, quick to tell where credits were being funneled and unafraid to ask for his share for his services. He helped keep the Charlatan alive during riskier periods of the Collective’s formation, a man who put his life down to help Reyes escape the attack that dented his chest plate and almost cost him his life against Sloane Kelly’s hell hounds. Leaning into the deep-rooted sadism that seems to come natural to his nature, Radwan’s bedroom dynamics mirror his need for dominance over enemies by his barrel, his partners various. They have their rules between them; Reyes calls, Radwan answers, Reyes doesn’t pry into his personal life (no matter the state in which the man answers the call in), and provides him the tools he wants when he asks. And Reyes makes sure to leave any of the people Radwan sleeps with alone, although he has recruited a few. </p><p>News pops up on his monitor at the corner. Pods from Ark Natanus have been found in the desert sands of Elaaden thanks to the rain water and shifting sands. No signs of vitals, the scratched and violently dented pods now these Turians’ coffins. Their Pathfinder, Macen, is not among these lost souls though.  </p><p>Liam has sent an email as well asking about the Angaran regulations on Kadara and their political leanings when moving through the Port and what that costs between them and Sloane. He may be the quickest smile on board the Tempest but he’s far sighted behind those warm brown eyes. He slides the message into a file of things still needing answering, including Knight’s request for a few uniforms from the Nexus. Making moves, he sees. </p><p>Quickly running through the base logs, the processor finds a discrepancy. Reyes sees Dorado’s name was not logged out the day the surveyor paid them a visit. A conveniently timed malfunction of his own system? He thinks not. But correlation still needs proof. She may have stepped out through the vehicle transport instead and confused the tracking network. Something that will need working on, Alejandro having made the same mistake the other week when talking with Aquila. </p><p>While he thinks about it, he steps into the Charlatan’s personal acquisition hall, walking down the stairs, lights booming on above and finds Keema her bottle of Angaran wine. For good measure, he grabs a bottle of whiskey, and stares across his realm, ammo crates, seed pods being tested underneath UV lamps, aisles upon aisles of organized technology. Only by upwards request can anyone else set foot in here, and no one but he himself and those who he invites can touch his office. </p><p>Processing, he walks down the aisles, looking for something to catch his eye. His footsteps are clear in the silence with the high ceiling and solitude. Every catalyzer, engine booster, all the specialized disk formatters and enhancing chips are in place- He stops. The EMP devices. None have been taken, but they’ve been picked up recently, looked at maybe. Out of serial number order, he can tell because he built the one in front, the one that used to be in the back. He glances down the aisle further, but sees nothing else out of order. </p><p>A call on his omni-tool pulls his attention away and he sees Ryder’s name again. Pleasantly surprised, Ryder’s called twice now, he answers, although just with audio. “Ryder.” He says, taking both his bottle and Keema’s back towards the stairs. </p><p>On the other line there’s a pause, a kind of hesitance, but it doesn’t last, Ryder asking, “Are you busy?” He sounds overstrung but delicately pulled together, a long day heavy on his shoulders. </p><p>“If by busy you mean about to have the first drink of the evening, then yes, delightfully so.”</p><p>Ryder breathes a laugh, although it’s fragile. He goes quiet, and Reyes enters his office, putting the bottles down and grabs his glass from the shelf. “Why don’t you have one with me? Are you.. by yourself?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m in my room. While our new outpost mayor flies out, we’re on standby.” His voice floats on the edge between exhausted and detached, teetering. A step away from falling through space. </p><p>“In other words, the night off.” Reyes pours himself the drink, gratified that Ryder chose to call him, and more than once. “Let’s celebrate.” He can tell Ryder is in his head, more so than usual and, willing to take the risk for the situation, tells him, “Turn your camera on.” </p><p>It is another long moment of darkness before the video flicks on, and Reyes transfers it to his monitor. Ryder’s glossy eyed but manages a smile when he sees Reyes, sitting at his desk still in his armor, helmet tossed to the bed. His hair is messy, elbows on his knees and hands squeezing each other. He looks like he needs sleep, and his usual light hearted, amiable nature has been subdued, muted in the face of his wall of responsibility and his personal suffering he keeps quiet beneath the surface. Suddenly aware of his appearance and what it implies, he runs a hand through his hair, and quickly apologizes. </p><p>“Sorry, I don’t know- I should’ve..” Knowing it’s a hallow front now, he finishes weakly, “Showered at least…” </p><p>“I’m glad you called.” Reyes says, easily, because he means it and those whiskey eyes jump up, needing to hear that, and they stare hard at him. </p><p>“Get a glass, Ryder.” </p><p>“I don’t..” He squeezes his hands tighter, looking back down to them, “I don’t know if I should be drinking right now.” </p><p>“Something the matter?”</p><p>Ryder breathes out, tense, but doesn’t answer and Reyes says, “How about you have a shot, relax and take a hot shower? I’ll be here when you get back.” </p><p>The proposal sinks in, Ryder looking at him, and admits, slowly, “Yeah, okay. That <em>does</em> sound nice.” It’s another moment before he even moves, his body in slow motion. He gets up, clearly aching under his armor, and walks out of the room briefly. Reyes gets to look around his room but realizes there hasn’t been much change since he’s last seen it. The same clutter of work, and a map that has locations pinpointed. It’s of Elaaden.</p><p>SAM’s nodule is spinning in the corner of the screen. Reyes sets his glass down and watches, thinking. He can’t ask questions he knows partial answers to so instead he waits, eyes flicking to Ryder as he comes back in with a bottle of vodka and a shot glass. </p><p>“Vodka’s all we got.” He says, lifting the bottle. Sitting makes him grimace, but Reyes pointedly doesn’t comment and watches the man pour with ease. They lift a cheers, and Reyes says, “To another victory by the Pathfinder, New Tuchanka was in great hands.”</p><p>Ryder says nothing, tossing it back, and Reyes drinks a full mouthful, loving the way the burn mellows all the taut lines, and softens Ryder’s eyes as he breathes liquid fire. Relaxing minutely, Ryder sets the glass aside, and Reyes observes, amused, “Not your first rodeo.”</p><p>Ryder chuckles, “This is quality. Nothing like the stuff we drank when I was in the academy.”</p><p>“I thought you only went to dance clubs to dance.”</p><p>Eyes folding, eyelashes melding, Ryder clarifies, “I never said I didn’t drink. I only said I didn’t get caught.”</p><p>That travels down his stomach, squeezing him, and Reyes knows his blood has ticked up a degree, warming. “Next on the list is a hot shower.” Leaning back into his chair, he folds his hands, “Please, don’t hesitate to take all that armor off.”</p><p>Ryder can’t help but echo the ghost of another smile, finally coming back into his facial muscles. “You’ll be here when I get back?”</p><p>Glass lifting to assure him, Reyes says before he drinks, “Right here.”</p><p>He breathes, raw, trust being exchanged here. In this moment, he does not look to be a leader reassured by his fellow teammates, or emotionally examined so his inner workings fit a puzzle to be understood by the doctor, he just needs to be Ryder. A man who has nothing to offer but his tattered soul and golden hazel eyes. Reyes watches the complicated effort to de-Pathfinder, all his armor coming free, and his bare skin still bearing the burden of battles picked. Even if for the present he wants to forget how vital his position is, he has to look past the bruises, which are purple and mottled, obviously tender, especially along his chest. He has to look past everything, the entirety of their universe, and he’s asking Reyes to help him do so. </p><p>Shirt off, now just in his underwear, a special pair, not cotton, so there’s no bunching when he wears his suit, Ryder turns the water on and comes back to the desk, and Reyes whistles low under his breath, every line, every detail clearly defined in the skin tight, black fabric. Ryder pours another shot, steps back, and says, “One more.” </p><p>He tosses it back, throat gorgeous, eyelashes flush to his cheeks and Reyes drinks in the show for him. Ryder clacks the shot glass down, arms strong on the desk and says, “I’ll be right out.”</p><p>“Take your time.” Reyes answers, eyes determined to take in every angle of Ryder’s body, the flesh of his stomach and the curve of his ass against the dip of his lower back. He likes watching the man walk away, likely to enjoy him coming back twice as much. </p><p>The bathroom door closes, the muffled sound of the water, and the whiteish lights of the Tempest specific to this room with the echoes of Ryder’s presence all speaking to a concoction of sensation. The intimacy is obviously present, he’s been in that very bedroom, slept beneath those sheets and showered in that bathroom. He’s touched the desk Ryder sits at frequently, and looked at personal pictures. But more so than just having been there, he’s been to plenty of people’s bedrooms, held their things, picked apart their identity through their photos (or lack thereof), the placement of their weapons (under the pillow? Predictable but not the worst place) he finds its familiarity enticing, wants to be there again and not to steal even if just by his eyes. </p><p>There’s no need to find the crutch for anything other than to understand, and his files of the Pathfinder that were once so objective are now riddled with the personal that he can’t quite dislodge. This is all just Ryder, every detail engaging a response from him and suddenly, sucking the air from his chest, he wishes he could smell the man’s cologne, and his shampoo warm on his person again. A ghost of a memory, he can almost conjure it. Threatening to make him sentimental, it lingers like a phantom of their time together. He drinks his whiskey in response. </p><p>Soothing, the sound of water and a body beneath it, calms him. It’s not often he finds the sound of another person in the other room relaxing. There’s always risk to people getting close or letting them out of the line of sight but instead, knowing Ryder is beneath that showerhead, he finds a surprising peace with it and opens his email, comfortable in their shared space. </p><p>He puts Knight in contact with another seller for her request, sensing the timing to withdraw, become scarce as her plans unfold. Liam’s email finds its way forwarded to Keema’s dock assistant through Shena’s address and he transfers Dr. Nakamoto’s semi-public necessities list to the Collective comms by anonymous tip. They all benefit if the doctor has enough numbing agent and pain gel. Radwan has sent a picture to his inbox, a slightly blurred but distinct picture of their Salarian walking in the markets with his dark eyes searching over the wrong shoulder. There’s activity going on around him, his height a disadvantage for blending in but Reyes has no complaints. There’s no script, not even a title to the email, but Radwan rarely writes anything more than he has to. </p><p>The water splashes roughly, but it only reminds Reyes of Ryder’s presence, and he glances into the other screen, before sending a confirmation to Radwan. They’re close to something, whether it’s more greedy pirates or something more sinister towards the base.</p><p>A communication pops up in his Collective emergency feeds. Someone’s been arrested by Sloane Kelly’s guards for brandishing the name and was beaten in the street before they were dragged off for a lopsided trial. The Outcast reveals more of its insecurity, and more of the violence that persists beneath the surface, relaying their warlord’s desire for war. </p><p>Ryder comes out, toweling his hair dry, another towel around his waist, white and as he tosses it onto the bed to slip into a pair of underwear, Reyes comments, “I knew video was a good idea.” As he turns back towards their call. </p><p>Glancing up, snapping his band into place, Ryder gives a real smile, all loose from the heat and the alcohol, “Thanks for waiting.” He yanks on a black t-shirt and then a pair of dark sweatpants, tapering off at the leg. His cheeks are warm, and he looks sleepy but he seems to be finally registering with his own body. Sitting down, he sighs out then asks, “You haven’t had any more issues with other smugglers?"</p><p>Chuckling, Reyes raises his hands coolly, acting as if he’s innocent, “Not even one hit on my life since then.” </p><p>Ryder shakes his head minutely, “So for Kadara standards, that’s good then.” </p><p>“Very.”</p><p>Ryder’s eyes, more focused now, glance around over Reyes’ shoulder, “I’ve been wondering, where are you right now?” </p><p>Heart deceivingly steady, face hardly showing the change into a careful expression of neutrality, he answers with only a moment between, “My office.” He finishes his drink, nerves hot like fire but his mind is cold steel, “I heard they found evidence of the Turian ark.”</p><p>Ryder sighs, easily persuaded to the new topic, “Nothing but dead ends for now.”</p><p>It isn’t far enough from his business. “Typical for Andromeda.” So he asks, “Tell me, how’s your sister?”</p><p>Surprise flashes across the man’s face, and then it softens, somber loneliness taking its place, “She’s stable, but no change. Her doctor says once she wakes up we’ll see how she’s really doing.” </p><p>Reyes is almost remorseful that he touched the nerve, but deflection comes naturally. He’ll prick if it keeps his bigger offenses at bay. The fine details of the man’s life are front page news and have been ever since he inherited his father’s title and Sara, even absent to the world around her, has not been awarded the exception. Ryder is at the very least observant, even on his more subdued days and this is no different. Letting his guard down merely because of their relations is not an acceptable defense. </p><p>“Is her leading doctor Harry Carlyle?” Reyes soothes the sting by stepping one person away from Ryder’s immediate family. He’ll give the man the distraction he so rightly deserves especially after his deliberate question.</p><p>“He is. You know him?”</p><p>“He did my pre-Andromeda check-up. Plenty of pilots saw him before departure. He’s a smart man, honest.” Reyes doesn’t mention the man’s suspicion at seeing his file, or the long stretches of silence with his dark brows pulled tight when assessing him against the profile he chose in order to get here. </p><p>“Yeah,” Ryder sighs out, “A strong medic and he’s laser focused on the field. Complains about arthritis in his knee but,” His lips quirk into a half smile, “I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s just hard to spend so many years in the middle of it all.” </p><p>Reyes can sense Ryder echoes those sentiments, the weight that sits on the heart carrying a fallen soldier’s tags through the carnage back home to a grieving family unrelenting. He may be a symbol of hope but underneath the pretty graphics and promising flyers of the Initiative is a man who’s watched his fellow men and women die horrifically, at the pretense of his own limitations. The responsibility of the doctor, and the Pathfinder creates their division, their heartbreak amidst the agonies of the universe. Reyes knows responsibility but at the base of his self-preservation is the knowledge that he is only one man’s sole provider and that man sits in the Charlatan’s chair. He is no golden soldier with a debt to be paid. </p><p>“It’s been a shit show but I’m glad he’s here.” Ryder says honestly, pulling at the towel from around his neck. “Can’t imagine leaving Sara with anybody else.” His words strike him, the Pathfinder who has had no choice but to walk on into the storm of the unknown, and hope his only living family doesn’t need him all the while.</p><p> The doctor <em>was</em> on the Pathfinder team previously, when Alec Ryder was their leader but he transferred to the Hyperion alongside the Scourge tragedy and Lexi T’Perro took his place. Was it the loss of an old friend? Or the brutality of the universe that drove fear through him? Is it having to watch his former associate’s son struggle uphill that asked a little too much from the doctor and ultimately led him into a more impersonal space of providing his services? “He used to visit when he was just beginning his practice to discuss his studies with mom.” Ryder almost laughs, “He tried explaining some of the basics to me, I didn’t understand a single thing.” </p><p>Too impartial for the ferocity of Andromeda, Dr. Carlyle must have regretfully pulled away, scared of failing another Ryder with his weakness on the field. He’s too serious for his own good but it all works in his benefit; the man would have surely recognized Reyes if he had stayed on the Tempest with Ryder. And he absolves himself by taking care of the other living Ryder, Sara. </p><p>Pouring another splash, Reyes smiles, “He loves his jargon, doesn’t he?”</p><p>Pleasantly taken aback, Ryder lights up, “And he never explains any of it.”</p><p>“I had to reference other studies to read his work on air born genetic mutation contaminants.” </p><p>This draws a laugh from the other man and he says, “I could barely sit through his lectures, his slides didn’t even look like English.” His mood has improved considerably, the sullen, distant Pathfinder only something seemingly for private spaces. That does everything to flatter the shadow, because he knows very well Ryder’s fellow Tempest people would think nothing of their leader expressing himself but he chooses not to show them his vulnerability. To prove reliability in the face of civil war, hell planets and a galactic force attempting to smother all other life, imperfections, emotions are blindingly similar to a chink in one’s armor. Ryder’s looking for that one place his personality doesn’t become an assessment for his credibility. </p><p>“Tell me you’ve seen his work on the genome splicing for cancer resilience?”</p><p>“Subtitles are basically necessary.”</p><p>Ryder lets out another laugh, and those eyes are glorious like a sunset that his soul basks in, a light it hasn’t known for a long while. It’s the gaze of a man who totals his offenses, his minuses, and attributes it merely to the complicated nature of being alive. It makes Reyes almost susceptible to the temptation of revealing his grand design, expose even the underbelly of his situation but he resists. It could end in nothing but forcing one of their hands. That bittersweet quality isn’t unbefitting of them. </p><p>They talk of the Citadel, of past nostalgia and science, Reyes enjoying Ryder’s apt for chemical combinations, vaguely picturing a parallel timeline where they could put their hands together and make powerful weapons, and market them without a care in the universe. </p><p> When they leave the call, silence settles like a blanket in the office. His whiskey is half drunk, but he feels it in his head already. Maybe it is a different whiskey he’s feeling. Ryder’s searched him out, made time for him more than usual lately, the distance proving the man’s lonely heart. But, the whiskey can talk for such perceptions. </p><p>Radwan has another picture for him that sharpens the world again. Their Salarian and a freewheeling agent called Derc, another Salarian with an interest in minerals, dancers and collecting coins before credits were established are sitting at a table in Tartarus in one of the back corners. Derc has his arms around two dancers, the blond with her long ponytail pulled high with a ribbon and a dark-haired woman with slender arms and legs. A certain Turian is standing at the table, talons in his belt, stance a reminder of his authority. Sloane’s knight in shining armor, Kaetus, and Reyes’ four-leaf clover.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. White Gloves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Pathfinder is given a reason to return to Kadara after weeks on Elaaden.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for the support! Some violence in this chapter, just as a warning!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morning shines on a new mayor of New Tuchanka’s Initiative outpost. She arrived late in the night, Kariste Archana, the chosen Asari and a compromise amongst higher powers. Her critique of the Initiative and even blatantly of the Nexus has been one of many thorns in Director Tann’s side, and bridges the distrust Morda thrives in now as appropriate. This is less of a militaristic base and more of a professional hostage in broad daylight. The Krogan want the research, the funding, the growing resources but won’t trust soldiers. The Initiative needs the fuel stop, a place to put people, give them jobs and satisfy the ever-growing demands of their public. With the right balance, they can coexist, New Tuchanka offering its protection and the Initiative allowing a hand into the figurative cookie jar that was once slapped away.</p><p>Ryder, black and glistening, stands by Archana’s side in the feed, glorious, strong, and available if the mayor should need him. She has a hardened brow, the wisdom of hundreds of years tight in her expression and merely shakes his hand in the formality of the situation. Archana is not afraid and that proves beneficial to Morda who looks infinitely pleased, her requirements overstepping Tann’s by just a few. He can argue to a certain line, but even as Director, he cannot completely override Addison’s input and she wants the outpost numbers. It’s a learning opportunity for Kadara. </p><p>Keema chuckles, graciously taking the wine with a thankful head bob, “You think they will negotiate with their own exiles for an outpost?” She leans onto the market counter where she is sometimes found when business requires buyers. “Elaaden may have similar population but Morda Nakmor has her skills of persuasion and a viable argument against the Nexus. Sloane is not the smooth talker the situation would need.”</p><p>Reyes knows this well. His eyes find some Outcast guards knocking around a human, smacking him with the butt of their guns, and putting their boots to his uniform. “True. But they may not have a choice when the time comes.” </p><p>Eyes glittering in interest, Keema hums. Anything for her people, she will side with the strongest. “What a bold statement. Careful of who hears such things. I give you my thanks.” She flashes the wine, “It will make the meeting with our warlord so much easier to endure. Even amongst her own Port she knows not when to give or how to take with reservation.”</p><p>“Secure Shena an invitation to Sloane’s Angaran party.” Reyes says after her, elbow on the counter, eyes sharp. </p><p>She looks over her shoulder then, she betrayingly glances to the wine, awareness coming over her. “Cashing your favor here, Vidal?” </p><p>His eyes lead hers back to the bottle and the vintage and says, “Make that two.”</p><p>Xxx</p><p>Lachlan shows determination in her brow, the winds of lifting ships rushing through her tight curls and against her leather jacket. “I’ll be back.” She promises, and he offers her the omni-tool upgrade chip he had taken from his Draullir stash a day before. </p><p>“For extra security.”</p><p>Her gloved hand takes it, holding it tenderly. It slides into a breast pocket and she offers one last half smile, “If I get caught, I’ll make sure to use the self-destruct button.” She indicates the arm where her omni-tool is and in return he says, slow, “So don’t get caught.”</p><p>Her expression sharpens, and she murmurs, “Haven’t been yet. Don’t plan to now. I’ll send you updates.” She walks away with her usual manner- level headed but still slipping through people, dodging elbows and boots with ease, as fluid as the breeze. When her ship is cleared for leave, he slips away, finding his back-alley doorway into the private hallways of the Collective’s maze where Radwan is waiting. </p><p>His thick arms are crossed, hair freshly washed, and street clothes on for the markets. All black, steel toe boots shined and laced exactly. </p><p>From the hallway a pair of agents walk briskly past them, speaking excitedly of fresh coordinates that are possibly the buried Nexus weapon cache. Reyes’ and Radwan’s eyes follow them and then Reyes asks, “Did you get audio?”</p><p>Lifting his omni-tool, Radwan plays a clip. </p><p>
  <em>”I was so close to it. I swear, the door is definitely past that entrance. It isn’t heavily guarded, just masked by the winding passage ways of the cave.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I guarantee my guy has this covered. Give him one last chance. He’ll show you what you want to see.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Last chance then. You’re on thin ice already.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Trust me, big guy, we want those credits. We won’t let you down.”</em>
</p><p>Radwan stops the recording and says, “They’re planning to invite themselves back to Draullir.”</p><p>“How convenient.”</p><p>“Too bad their young, green agent is going to have an accident. Mining can be so dangerous.” Faintly, his lips curve sadistically and Radwan steps away from the wall. “I’ll head back and stake out the base.”</p><p>Mission laying in wait, Radwan once again becomes a Collective shadow in the public, another face to slip past and forget and someone’s deadly fate already decided. A limb of the Charlatan, the hand that swings the blade, he is a walking guillotine presenting as a man. </p><p>Contact to a representative heading most of their infiltration missions, Tel’yara Makerix, the Charlatan confirms an Outcast position called ‘Davidson,’ a grunt between sectors with the right set of ID cards and enough carefully planted rumors to allow him a drink at the bar with the usuals and a foot into the throne room for ‘security purposes’ if it is ever needed. Makerix, an Asari with a strangely joyful laughter and flashing, clever eyes answers her emails with a swiftness not even Reyes can match, always updated on the newest abbreviations and text speak. She gives the green light for a new mole, promising the outfit and all its items awaits its next pretender in a coded locker on the docks. They were installed when the Outcast enforced de-arming for access to the Port so weapons and unauthorized equipment could be stored until further lodging was acquired. They make for fantastic drop-off spots and hide more than one Collective secret and such deliberate misusage of Sloane’s establishment makes for good humor in the ranks. </p><p>Tartarus welcomes him with low, pulsing music and the blond waitress smiling with all her teeth, scar arching cleanly along her lips, “Vidal!” She calls herself Barbi at work, tight lipped about any personal information outside of her online vidcam work which keeps her dues paid and her glass half full even when the club dips in appeal for its local residents. She has her hair down, long, straight and sweeping her back, earrings glistening in the lights. Leaning against the counter, bent with consideration towards the door, Barbi rolls her head to the side in effortless appeal, long eyelashes batting nicely, “Here for a drink?”</p><p>One of the Asari waitresses giggles, walking behind them, hand in hand with a young, fresh eyed exile, her ponytail loose from the dance floor and likely her chest racing madly at the thought of her rapidly approaching personal dance session. Barbi smiles, bubblegum pink lip gloss shining and Kian says, “Fresh stock from the mysterious and likely few pretending to be one Charlatan!” He half raises the glass he was shining in a mock cheers but he is endlessly pleased, the efforts of haggling through second hand buyers unnecessary when the Collective is generous. </p><p>“I think it’s a handsome young man. A rogue cowboy.” Barbi coos, drawing aimless circles on the counter’s service with her pink nails. Her other hand cups her chin, “Imagine, just like those old westerns, a strapping, hard working man with rough hands from the fields,” She swoons, hair cascading down her shoulder, “And he’d be a quick shot, a true protector of justice, riding his horse across the land, the nameless vigilante!” </p><p>She is not wrong about several of those details. Call it a woman’s intuition. </p><p>“Och,” Kian almost rolls his eyes, “First thing, you’d be strapped to find a horse here.”</p><p>Reyes’ gaze finds a bottle with his distinct ‘R’ on it sitting, waiting faithfully on the shelf. The loyalty and pretty compliments make for a wondrous mood and bourbon can only kiss it like a lover.   </p><p>“A round on me then. Barbi, care for a drink?” Reyes says, and even now he loves seeing undivided attention on him, the deepening of the pupil and faint, delicate lowering of the eyelids that speaks to attraction. Is it his face she can see as her cowboy? Or does she see a successful smuggler, the man in the first room with good taste in whiskey and intelligent brown eyes that understand as much as she does here in Tartarus? He’ll be anyone, because he is anyone. </p><p>“Delighted to.” She says, and Kian reminds her, “You’ve got a client on the hour!”</p><p>In her tall, thick heels, she saunters around the bar, fingerprinting her way inside and says, leaning close to the bartender to take a tray and glasses, “If you’re so worried I’ll forget, maybe you should be the one to dance for Robert.” </p><p>Lips pursing, he reaches up and puts the bottle on the tray, relenting, “He won’t like me dancing.”</p><p>“Then don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”</p><p>Scratching the back of his head, Kian turns back to the front, glancing up into his screen which is playing a Nexus conference about Elaaden’s outpost, “Aye, rightio then. Pour the drinks and mind me business. Easy enough.”</p><p>Barbi’s steps pick up, her excitement evident, and she spins, balancing the alcohol expertly, small holographic skirt alive beneath the rotating lights, “Come to my favorite table. I love the corner; you can see everything.” People enjoying Aya farmed grass beer and the high pace of electric music move about them, couples walking arm in arm, limbs loose with drink and faces pleased despite the circumstances of Andromeda. Voices to say nothing but things easy to digest trickle through the beat, dancers spinning on poles recently added to the dutifully protected stage. Cassandra, in an all-black outfit, wraps a brown leg around silver, upside down, hands firm on the pole, and spins out, her legs doing a slow and well-maintained split. Above her on the outside of the stage her credit earnings ding up quickly, the digital version of tossing ones to a stripper appreciated. </p><p>Flipping her hair back over her shoulder, Barbi folds one long, sparkly leg and pours them each a neat bourbon, slender fingers of her prosthetic exact. They sit side by side, in the very seat that Derc and his minions were in just recently. By no coincidence. </p><p> His arm glides across the back of the couch and she settles into its crook, the perfect balance, an image that will arouse little suspicion, but is nothing more than a front, and if more, a casual diversion. She sips, pleased at the heat and murmurs, easily ready for conversation and appreciating it all the more with him. He knows everything. </p><p>“The mood has been so heavy in the girls’ room.” Barbi sighs, smelling faintly of strawberries which Reyes finds pretty even vaguely nostalgic but does nothing to coil heat beneath the surface, “Terra’s been taking Oblivion on the side but now that the stock’s basically out she’s losing it.” </p><p>Their eyes drift over to a woman in a cage, skinny with quickly tightening interests and auburn hair loosely braided. She spins, rolling her hips back and then down, kneeling effortlessly but it lacks heart. She is somewhere else entirely, eyes vacant. The credit balance above the cage proves her audience aware of this as well. </p><p>“Outcast fucks who don’t have anything better to do like to use the shit cuts they still have in storage to ‘convince’ favors. We tell her not to go, but she just can’t seem to shake its hold.” Drinking, she watches on, a somber but brutally loyal expression hardening her eyes, “When it all started she said it was just a party thing. A little buzz to keep her on her feet. Now we’re all worried we’re going to lose her.” The moment is present, a fragile vulnerability but it is quickly concealed, and she asks, “How’s that trial going for the doctor?” </p><p>“In need of a little resources. But it’s being covered.” </p><p>Barbi tilts her head and sighs, putting a hand to his shoulder, “You think he’ll be successful?” She settles her cheek on her own hand. The club whirls with red light, cages glowing, beams of light hitting off costume to make fantastic distortions. </p><p>Reyes knows she is not looking for loosely offered security. If Kadara’s sin are to consume another life, then this soul can only be counted towards those privileged enough to have those to grieve for it afterwards. “The man created Oblivion so his sense of responsibility provides him quite enough moral dilemma to find a way.”</p><p>“I hope so.” </p><p>A moment passes, a drunk stumbling past their table, almost spilling their drink and laughing with their company and Barbi sighs, rolling her hair over her other shoulder, good mood breathing again, “Sorry, there are far less depressing topics. Did you hear they’re releasing another wave of pods? Think, new clients! New faces!” Her face brightens at the thought. New Tuchanka’s outpost is certainly taking the Nexus for its money. The security division will have little to say if another wave of rioting sparks with the lack of rotation and opportunity. Morda has her timing down. He would like to one up even that. </p><p>His lips touch a smile. “Tired of your usuals?” </p><p>Waving them all away, she complains, “Hardly anyone to be impressed by. Like Derc the other day. He doesn’t even appreciate a show, only likes a girl to sit there as he does business. Booked both me and Yasmine just so he could brag he can afford it and we sat there as he talked about rocks and secret caves or whatever.”</p><p>Just the topic he was hoping to bridge to. Casually, he loops her closer, pouring her another splash with the arm from the couch back, “Secret caves?” </p><p>A giggle escapes her, and she takes it gratefully, pleased, “Oh, I don’t know. But!” Her eyes light up, finger jumping up over her raised glass, “Sloane’s favorite Turian was here. Very interested in some door. A secret door in a secret cave! It actually does sound kind of exciting. But not when Derc is saying it.” </p><p>“The Turian didn’t stay for a dance, I presume.”</p><p>A laugh rolls out of her, “Of course not. He’s all soldier all the time.”</p><p>“Barbi!” </p><p>Groaning, she quickly downs her drink, “Can’t a girl take her time? Until next time, Vidal.” Sending him a wink, she glides out of the booth and struts across the dance floor, waving over her shoulder with her fingers. A complaint is clear on her lips to the Asari who had called, “Robert’s early. Can’t we tell him to follow Tartarus rules?”</p><p>Reyes swallows thoughtfully, the mellow atmosphere Barbi brought quickly fading as he watches Chug walk in with his Krogan buddies and a snarl of a bad mood. He slams his fist on the bar counter, barking out a drink order, and shoves back one of the other Krogan, growling like an animal before a kill. Zrel is watching from her spot by the door, unamused to say the least. </p><p>“Double that shot, human! The piss you flesh bags drink ain’t nearly strong enough.” Aggressively looming against the counter, Chug sneers, “Krid’s getting on my goddamn nerves!” He hurls the drink into his mouth, booming, “Another!” Slamming the metal cup down. “Playing it cool, acting like Kaetus isn’t just cold shouldering us out.” </p><p>Another Krogan lifts a finger to get the same thing, half grinning, “Why’re you worried about what that stiff faced mop is doing?”</p><p>“<em>Be-cause</em> he’s the one Sloane listens to first! Sure,” He tosses his next drink back with less force, melting beneath the liquor, “Krid’s topped the security division, there ain’t no question about his importance. But titles go by rank. Kaetus’ got a rank that can’t just be earned.”</p><p>They all smack their glasses together and one chortles, “Maybe you’re just mad you don’t have a lover yourself. One with the power to start wars.”</p><p>The joke goes unappreciated and Chug growls audibly, teeth barred and it earns them all a loud warning from Zrel at the door, “Don’t make me come over there!” </p><p>Chug shoots her a look, but it is more sizing her up, picking his battles and deciding he wants to drink still more than a stink eye. He jabs a finger to the Krogan’s chest plate, “It’s bigger than tenting a woman. This is why you never earn your next rank.” He braces himself back on the counter, sliding his cup back to Kian for a third, shoulders hunched, “Got rot for brain.”</p><p>“Ah, screw you, Chug.” </p><p>But the other in the party rocks his head in acknowledgment, “Well, it was the reason you almost failed your right of passage.”</p><p>“That was a misunderstanding! Listen-“ </p><p>The conversation loses Reyes’ interest to a message from Keema who graciously tells him of the upcoming Angara party and his two invitations, the wine doing its job. She has not yet asked directly why he needs more than one invite but she assumes she will find out eventually. Her meeting finished, she is on the docks preparing to leave Kadara for Elaaden to show her support to Annea and The Paradise. It is the yearly anniversary of Asgaar’s death, Annea’s prized younger brother and Keema is always present for their ritual to honor their lost. Commemoration for Annea’s business demands a gathering, and beneath the surface of an innocent jubilee, regrouping and fortification is calling forth all Angara in the water merchant’s web. </p><p>She says she will be back within the next few weeks, before the party. Her second in line will be handling most of her on site duties, Eshalaah Iv, and that if he needs anything, she will be available for her own price. </p><p>He stands, taking his bottle and heads upstairs, where his thoughts can align better and work can be done. </p><p>Xxx</p><p>Days go by, clients in and out, easy credit laundering, cargo transfers through Spirit’s Ledge and nights of gambling alongside Alejandro and Aquila. Kralla’s Song, and Keema’s booth for business gives the angles he needs to watch his moles in their Outcast uniforms and the market, which is beginning to purple at the chokehold Sloane has on it. Protection fees have doubled again, Outcast relocated resources increasing from each vendor in order to ensure her right to the growing economy. No longer does she sneer at Collective branded outfit and watch like a predator already full. She’s blood thirsty, and has put several Collective men’s heads on spikes, threatening the Charlatan they’re next when they stop hiding like a coward. The stakes are higher, and even the proud and boasting terrorist group, Yakshi, has pulled itself back underground, not prepared for civil war. </p><p>Payback is coming. Reyes watches Kaetus walk beside his leader, datapad in hand, as she circles her guard bases, the security units, stopping at Krid’s who motions across the market to the weapons vendors with a heavy head nod. First, he’ll sabotage those units. Then he’ll punish her second for being smarter than his boss. Not smart enough, but that’ll be part of his personal repentance. </p><p>“Are you working?”</p><p>His eyes drift away from his targets, to a short woman with striking orange locs and a rush of freckles across her nose. She indicates to the stool in front of his counter with her pale sage eyes and he offers it to her with a slight nod. </p><p>Sitting, she looks him over, and then offers a hand, “Tamara.”</p><p>He takes it, his gloved hand squeezing her white gloved hand, “Reyes Vidal.”</p><p>Tamara knows him, he can see it in her eyes, and she says, “How’s your schedule? Got something going on tonight?” The smug pull of a smile makes dimples in her cheeks, and she relaxes into the counter, folding her arms to rest on. She is mirroring him. </p><p>“Is that an offer to drinks or something a little more professional?” </p><p>Their faces are close, enough that he can tell her eyeliner is brown, and that she is wearing a distinct perfume he recognizes. She has a tattoo up her throat, curving like a half necklace just barely visible above the neck of her suit. “If you’re interested, we can arrange both. First the job,” She regards him, motioning with a hand to drink, “Then a celebratory shot of whatever’s the strongest and most expensive bottle Umi can find.”</p><p>A notification beeps on his omni-tool and he purposefully turns his attention away, watching her from his peripherals, seeing her expression harden at the eyes and hand stiffen on the cool counter. A chain of messages including Vetra Nyx’s handle and a new email from Liam with attachments inside. When he turns his gaze back, Tamara’s lips tick up, her smile warm, if a little sharp. </p><p>He admonishes the chinks in her performance but is curious enough to confirm her origin.  </p><p>“If you pay for the drinks, I think we can come to an arrangement.” </p><p>“Sure, sure.” She says coolly, satisfied, “Reasonable enough. I have all the details,” A hand glides into a front pouch and flips a datapad onto the counter, “Right here.” He looks at it, watches the minute twitch of her fingers and then slowly looks back up into her face, staring at her. </p><p>Unblinking, Tamara waits, but breathes easier when he picks up the datapad to look over the information. Seizing stolen goods from rouges in the badlands, a cache of medical supplies and weaponized enhancers for tech. He can see the crates in the verifying images and their identifying codes. Smuggled Nexus resources flown through, either dropped off or shot down outside the Port, the mandatory red code absent from all of the cargo. The datapoint is past Varren’s Scalp edging Haarfel, a known area for scavengers and criminals thrown to the wolves when Sloane was less inclined to behead her Port dwellers. The pay is 20,000 credits, a good sum, a little too good for a scheme like this but he wouldn’t mind pocketing it. </p><p>“Is this your lost cargo?” He asks. </p><p>“My company’s. We’ve a small group that transport and assist jobs for one another. I don’t really smuggle, just provide back-up when necessary.”</p><p>He lays the datapad down and says, “I’ll have this sorted by tonight.”</p><p>Standing, Tamara grins, like a cocked gun and says, “Fantastic, then we’ll being tossing drinks back by midnight!” She turns to go and he presses a contact to call, eyes following her back into the crowd. </p><p>“Radwan, feel like practicing your aim for a little distraction? Our white knight is busy playing dutiful right arm and I’ve just met a mouse pretending to be a cat.” </p><p>Xxx </p><p>He rides out on his bike, helmet gleaming with the orange of the sky, blood on fire, and pistol sitting faithfully at his hip. Roads that have been beaten into formation lead the way, his omni-tool beeping when close. There’s a massive shipping container waiting amongst the makings of a camp obviously recently used with the scorch marks of a fire pit and seats easily foldable amongst the Nexus labeled cargo scattered alongside a jeep vehicle and crudely positioned coverings for if the rain decides to hit unexpectedly. A few beer cans sit on flat surfaces and Reyes, parking his bike, jiggles one to test its weight. Still cool to the touch, half drunk. He removes his helmet and pushes his hair back, a gun cocking behind his head stilling his movements. </p><p>“Anything for profit. Just like she used to say about you.” </p><p>He glides his helmet onto his bike handle, and asks mildly, “Who?”</p><p>The barrel bumps against his head, “Don’t play dumb! You know who I’m talking about.”</p><p>He considers this, mocking the severity of their anger with him and offers, “You mean the last person who tried to ambush and kill me?”</p><p>The air goes cold between them, his threat lingering like the chill of a cold breeze right at the final beams of sunlight disappearing into night. The gun settles with more conviction to his skull, and he can smell that same perfume on the air, an echo of a woman dead but not forgotten. </p><p>“I’m going to burn your body for Zia.” </p><p>Whirling with that instinct, Reyes’ hand knocks her wrist up, a bullet flying for the stars, making her bone ache with the force and he grapples the weapon from her hand, whirling a punch into her throat that snatches the air from her lungs. He smacks her with the butt, and then kicks out her knee and soon he is straddling her, the gun reloaded, his finger on the trigger. </p><p>The shipping container door clacks open noisily, banging footsteps rushing out, the sound of armor and weaponry loud in the silence of Kadara’s hills. Guns positioned on him, plenty, at least five all begin to circle for the best aim and Reyes inwardly sighs. </p><p>“Freeze!” A man orders and Reyes thinks it a little belated but he tosses the gun and steps off Tamara who is still clearing the pain from her throat to breathe properly. She rises weakly to an elbow, trembling with the acute knowledge he would have taken her life if given another second. Someone offers her a hand which she grabs, but she refuses to take her eyes off the smuggler, as if fearful he could reach her if she allows him the distraction. </p><p>“So who do you work for?” Reyes asks, straight to the point, looking to each face, putting them to memory. </p><p>Voice harsh, still creaking through a recovering wind pipe, Tamara snarls, “<em>I</em> hired them. With Zia’s lasting funds. She’d want to pay for you to rot.” She’s holding her throat, and her bruised ego but the honor for revenge is still admirably intact. He thinks Zia’s paid plenty already but he digresses. </p><p>Hired men, so there lacks the personal grudge to this unit. He acknowledges them, looks them over once more, and says, “Did she tell you about the previous group of smugglers who tried this exact tactic? Mopped off the floor, sprayed down and coffins shot into space. I won’t be as kind this time.” </p><p>One man glances to Tamara and then to the one who had given the orders. Uncertainty is all he needs to birth the hesitation which kills men. He slowly turns his gaze to the weak link, and says, “The wildlife is going to eat your guts while you scream and scream and no one on Kadara is going to help you. All for some petty revenge of someone you didn’t even know.” </p><p>He swallows visibly, eyes wide on Reyes. His gun dips, afraid now to even appear to take the shot. Tamara roars, “You bastard! Don’t listen to him! He’s a man on death row! What can one man do to you?” </p><p>Reyes raises one finger subtly, Tamara giving the perfect misdirection and a whistle sings out from the hills, knocking a small splatter of brains out of the man next to the one who has lowered his gun and he startles, blood flecking his visor and his lips which are twisting in slow motion horror. The mercenary folds in a lifeless heap, blood trickling down his frozen face. </p><p>“You might shoot me, but not before I shoot more of you.” </p><p>Another wave of hesitation and Tamara jerks forward, knee weak to her weight. </p><p>Reyes raises two fingers and two more men break under the death of their brains, collapsing to the ground, leaving their leader, the shaking, terrified newbie clearly worth only the body and not the bullets in his gun and one another man who learns fast, turning his gun as Tamara raises a rifle picked up off a body and stopping her in her tracks. Her face hardens into a hateful grimace and she spits, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”</p><p>Reyes watches, “I think these men can tell a losing dog when they see one. It seems they run in packs.” His eyes narrow on her knowingly and how her stare burns with the need for violence. </p><p>Walking back towards the gun he had tossed earlier, he bends down and picks it up, rolling it in his grip, testing it. Cheap but not worthless. Kind of like its owner. “I think the Collective could use a smart man like you.” He says to the man who has his gun trained on Tamara. He glances over, breathing hard but his blue eyes light up with the idea of staying alive another day. An opportunity like this can make a loyal man, one who appreciates mercy from someone far bigger than themselves. </p><p>“Are they hiring?” He asks shakily, mouth curving in a grin filled with adrenaline. His short cropped blond hair makes him look young, the youth in his cheeks present. Still moldable. </p><p>Reyes mock aims for Tamara’s knee caps, and says casually, “They’re doing initiations right now actually.” </p><p>The man doesn’t hesitate with the suggestion, shattering her knee with a quick bullet, yanking a roaring, “Jesus Christ!” Before Tamara crumbles to the ground like a broken doll, the pain breaking her into an immediate sweat, face going pale and pasty. He commends her for staying awake, but only because he can tell she is inexperienced. </p><p>The weaker willed man jerks, glancing across the hills and then to Reyes, nerves as twitchy as a mouse, “W- wait!”</p><p>Tamara’s screams make his protests hard to hear, but they’re meaningless. Reyes turns towards him and the leader and says, lifting his hands, still holding the gun, “There’s only one more knee cap.”</p><p>The blond man breathes, his life seemingly protected and settles in behind Reyes with little remorse or sympathy to be read in his facials. It’s a dog eat dog world and Kadara’s breed need more than just fangs, but also the stomach to digest their fellow pack when the time comes. </p><p>The leader licks his lips, glancing to the other man who whips around, eyes wide, searching his leader’s face as if he can’t believe the man would even consider it, “You- you’re not serious! She said we wouldn’t even have to shoot at him! C’mon Rob!” He watches helplessly as Rob walks past, gun positioning on Tamara’s other leg, her hands holding her bloody, mangled one, face screwed tight with gut wrenching throbbing. She moans out, her teeth staying clenched, “You’re all sick fucks!”</p><p>Rob, with his buzzed hair and permanent frown lines, steels his resolve, breathing hard underneath his chest plate. “Sorry, Billy. I’ve got someone waiting for me back on the Nexus.”</p><p>“Rob!” Billy sobs, “Come on, man!”</p><p>He shoots, Tamara letting free a blood curdling shriek, blood splattering messily on the ground. The night life howls in the distance, waking to the night stars sparkling to life and the smell of fresh life wounded out in the open. </p><p>“Well, well, Billy, is it?” Reyes turns to him, ignoring Tamara’s broken pleading, her spitting curses, and moaning that proves she fears death. “It appears all the Collective slots have been filled. We keep a tight circle. I would say better luck next time, but there won’t be a next time.” </p><p>“Please, I- I just got here!” He collapses to his knees, grabbing at Reyes’ arms, his hands, anything, trying to hold his chances close, naïve but not completely unaware of what is about to become of him. He looks fresh out of stasis, and the scent of a very specific sealed air is still faint in his hair. </p><p>Slowly bending down to the man’s eye level, deceivingly cool, Reyes’ voice goes soft, “Tell you what, I’ll give you this.” He hands off the pistol, “She hired you, so think of it as an investment to help get you out of this situation she put you in. If you make it back to the Port alive, come find me. I’ll give you a desk job you’ll be proud to sit at.” </p><p>Billy stares at him like he is lucifer, shining angel of hell, both a savior and a curse. He watches in awe, eyes shining with tears, as the man stands, his shivering hands still cupping the gun like a gift. A tear jerks free and runs down his cheek, mouth open like his voice has run free and escaped before him. </p><p>Turning towards the cargo, Reyes knocks off a beer can with little thought, “Are these simply decoys?” He looks inside, seeing it empty and he returns to Tamara’s side, “Pulled them out of the trash? Very rat-like of you.”</p><p>Her eyes are squeezed shut and he crouches next to her, grabbing her by the chin and turning her face towards him and she peers through bloodshot eyes and malice at him, blood smeared across her cheek, “How does revenge taste?”</p><p>“Zia deserved better.” Tamara hisses, “She would still be alive if it weren’t for <em>you</em>!” The bitter, enraged hurt makes the final word as much of a condemnation as an actual insult. Her head goes weak on her neck, and he lets her relax back into the dirt and dust, reaching along her omni-tool, hacking it open and transferring her credits, a solid 15,000 ready for his personal account. He tosses her arm back and she groans, weak, slightly delirious and tries to blink away the blurriness smearing her eyes. </p><p>“Give my regards to Zia in hell for me.” </p><p>Standing, he takes his helmet into his hands and nods Rob and the blond to the vehicle, “Follow me.” </p><p>“Fuck you, Vidal!” Tamara’s voice bellows with the final rush of her strength, her cry of torture met by a howl that rips through the air closer than before, a predator meaning to strike fear into its prey to smell before the kill. </p><p>Billy dumbly looks at the pistol, then up as he watches the two men from his squad load into the jeep and yank their doors closed. They decidedly don’t look back. </p><p>Reyes starts his bike, kicking his kickstand back, “Use those bullets wisely, Billy!” He takes off, and the jeep roars to life, following with Rob driving. The road is masked in quickly deepening darkness, and even with his headlight, it creeps along his body, caressing his shoulders and whispering of the dangers that lurk just off the roads. </p><p>The warden welcomes them back, allowing their transportation inside, the gates opening with a distinct creaking. Gliding the newly acquired jeep into Collective allotted space disguised as just another mass of free wheeling purchased machinery, Reyes looks at his fresh men, one with guilt imbedded in his expression, likely age old and now a part of him and the quick learning shot. </p><p>“So, Rob. And?” </p><p>“Will.” The blond answers, and he’s got the eyes of a man who will find solace in an order even if it encompasses violence. Rob carries a muted but pained gleam in his eyes, and he turns his gaze away briefly as if it stings him to look too long at the blond. </p><p>“Will.” Reyes sees Radwan approach from over the man’s shoulder and he waves him closer, “Meet the man who didn’t kill you but had every opportunity.”</p><p>His suit is all black, the helmet attached to the back for easy access, long, elegant gun holstered and hair pulled loosely into a ponytail to keep it out of his face. His black eyes are heavy, still dense from the thrill of a kill and he considers both men, Rob thin and tall and at his eye level who swallows like he has a bad taste in his mouth and Will who stands a head shorter and is staring like he’s had an awakening, eyes wide, lips parting ever so slightly. There’s only two people in his world right now and one of them has the blood of old comrades on his hands. </p><p>Radwan pulls his lingering gaze away, turning to Reyes who gives him a knowing and indicative look. Indoctrination would make a good agent out of Will and clearly his loyalties are settling in quick, his doe heart beating fast at the gaze of a real predator, ready to transform. Reyes has no issue assigning low and unassuming jobs to men who want them, equally uncaring if either men want to leave his company. He trusts they won’t play with their lives as carelessly as to chase him again. </p><p>A present from the Charlatan for all your hard work, Reyes says with his eyes and Radwan flashes appreciation as raw as hunger. He rarely works alongside other agents, a lone wolf, but training a fresh face has its appeal, especially when they show promise and pretty, stormy eager eyes.</p><p>“Ever shot a sniper rifle?” Radwan asks, low, and Will almost trembles, excitement evident, “I can learn.”</p><p>It’s good enough and he accepts, nodding the blond forward as he takes him under his wing, giving Reyes one last glance over his shoulder to assure his mission is still high on the priority list. Waving them off, Reyes indicates the night is his to do as he pleases. They walk, and Rob is left with his thoughts and his conscience which is worse for wear. </p><p>It’s a moment between them, just the sounds of creaking metal beneath old construction work and vehicles beeping to back-up into their own slots distantly. Reyes craves a cigarette and he nurses his lips with his fingers and thumb, seeing in his mind’s eye a man leaning against the railing, lighting his cigarette with his own, a burning memory, one that even leaves the sensation of smelling the brand. </p><p>“So, this.. job offer.” Rob finally grounds out, wiping his face with a hand, “It’s.. serious?” </p><p>“Depends on your skill set.” Reyes says non-committedly. </p><p>“Look,” Rob starts, “I’m, I’m looking for a way to get back on the Nexus. I’ve got a wife.”</p><p>Reyes has no need for sob stories but he sees the man pull out a pack of cigarettes and when he’s offered one, he thinks he has a minute. It’s menthol, and when Rob lights his first, he mellows into the moment, half listening, half in his own head as they lean against the jeep. The man talks of how they were all just released from stasis, left in between jobs, avenues once open now closed and desperation coming on fast like a tidal wave. Tamara had approached him, and several other guys, already having recruited Will and Billy, and asked if he wanted a quick way to make big credits. Wife not yet out of her pod, this was his chance for quick stability and he took it. But he’s not looking to start trouble, just carve a small space for him and a budding family. He’s not a killer.</p><p>A little soft for the Collective. </p><p>But desperation can harden a man easily.</p><p>“I can get you back to the Nexus.” Reyes says, stubbing out the nub of his cigarette on the wheel of the jeep. </p><p>Rob’s not completely convinced, a man of little trust to spare. “You can?”</p><p>“Sure, all you have to do is take a few pictures when I ask.”</p><p>“Pictures..” Rob echoes, uncertain but faltering. He thinks it possible, even deceivingly simple.</p><p>“What do you say?” Reyes turns his gaze on the man, arms loosely folded.</p><p>“I’ll do it.”</p><p>Xxx</p><p>Liam’s email has several logs of data comparing the resource import and exports of Eos and then Voeld, highlighting the weaker links. He’s looking for a reason to prove Kadara just as viable for an outpost to present to Addison, confirming the benefits. Reyes archives the data, but mostly for Collective use. The final picture is of Ryder, smoking outside the Tempest, leaning back against her frame and staring out into the sunny distance, brow serious, solitude clear and any watchful gaze unnoticed. </p><p>So they’re both craving. </p><p>Keema has arrived on Elaaden, and she sends shots of the growing outpost, the rapidly developing structures and the increased patronage to The Paradise. Even with New Tuchanka’s protection and the Krogan colony taking the world’s security further upon their broad shoulders, the danger of Elaaden has not been completely transformed. There are still roaming nomad gangs, drifters capable of tearing apart research vehicles without remorse and the worm which has taken its fair share of people to the grave. </p><p>With the outpost vulnerable, and fresh Nexus sent scientists and recon units are exploring and mapping the sand dunes, the Tempest is grounded. Scouts send information back and forth, eyeing resources flown in, and its security. Everything is running smoothly, enough so that Ryder might be finally off-guard duty, having spent most of his time by the mayor’s side, a middle man between Addison and Archana, and a safety net to any threat attempting to catch the Initiative program before stability settles in with dome shields and heat sensing alarms. </p><p>He looks good as a body guard, standing by, hands behind his back in neutral position, albeit he appears a little bored. Running off to take private smoke breaks just for a minute of reprieve? No doubt the overtly political atmosphere is becoming more and more stifling each rotation of the never-ending sun. The desert lulls, and while Ryder has a post to answer to, his crewmates are free to do as they please. Vetra’s emails include sales from the dismantled Flophouse, the final remains of a now sandy, half burnt echo, and Liam walks with his Pathfinder, spreading his hands across their outpost, pride evident, and dreams big. Ryder’s eyes are distant for another reason, but maybe it’s just the sun. </p><p> When a distress call rings, not only does the Pathfinder rise swiftly to answer it, so do the cameras, ready to capture exactly how this will pan out for the politics and if it’s off brand, twist it if needed. It’s a Nexus shuttle alarm, an automatic ring to its base. The Nomad dispatches, and drones fly from The Paradise overhead. </p><p>Sinkholes drop off, ready to flip unsuspecting vehicles, scattered randomly and house the call for help. The Nomad skids to a stop and Ryder glides down the arching slope, smoothly surfing the sand and when he and Liam reach the bottom, seeing the smog blackened and obviously damaged shuttle, the door whishes open, smoke billowing out and a woman, weak in the knees, drops off the edge, collapsing into Ryder’s open arms. He folds down to his knees, holding her carefully as she coughs, breathing fresh air and looks up into her savior’s helmet. She touches along his glass, the jaw of his helmet, and, even at the distance, the drone picks up her awed, trembling voice, “The Pathfinder…”</p><p>“Are you alright?” He asks, and what a poignantly Initiative driven image they make, the defenseless scientist priming their world for the better and the dedicated soldier coming to her side when she needs him. </p><p>“I was.. shot down.. barely managed to land.. I never thought the Pathfinder would come to my aid..” A fragile smile touches her ash covered face and he assures her, “I’ve got you. Liam-“</p><p>The roar of tires on sand and powerful engines picks up and the drones, with their sky angles, see several patched, vicious Frankenstein tank carriers approaching, billowing clouds of dust chasing their large wheels. Curved bones and molded metal made into aggressive spikes adorn the fronts, barriers built for ramming like the mechanical mouth of a beast. </p><p>“Enemy approaching!” Cora shouts from above by the Nomad, the shadows filtering down into the sinkhole. </p><p>Doors crack open, raiders stepping out into the sun, armed to the teeth and a Turian walks to the edge, looking down into the hole with a considering look, gleaming armor red and glowing with turbo charged boosters. He lacks any markings, face strikingly pale, his trademark painting fresh ones with the blood of his victims he brutally beats to death. The culprit is the gang leader of the sand dunes, Axius. His dark eyes take in the situation. “So this is where you landed my lucky little bounty.” He says, and a clang of a lock echoes behind him, growls of Adhi rippling the hot air. “And my oh my,” His voice drawls, thick legged beasts snarling beside him, ready to rush forward and tear apart anything living at the drop of a pin, “That’s the Pathfinder.”</p><p>Outlaws stare down into the hole, vultures with their faceless masks of dark helmets, weapons like sharpened beaks, but their greed is unmasked, easily read. Ryder’s arm curls protectively about the scientist’s shoulders and he cautiously stands, lifting her into his arms fully which incites the Turian to hold up a talon, using it to indicate to the woman, “Now, now. Where do you think you’re taking that? As you can see,” He sweeps her ship, the telltale signs of his work, “I’ve claimed all of this.”</p><p>Liam’s hand is on his gun, shoulders lowered for better stance. From above, Cora is half in the driver’s seat, standing on the step up, watching, assessing timing. They’re waiting for their leader. </p><p>“It’s already got my name on it.” Ryder says, wrapping his knuckles on the Nexus logo on her shuttle, “There are rules about taking things that aren’t yours.” </p><p>Axius’ sharp mouth ticks up in a smirk, “I don’t follow rules.”</p><p>“Then I guess you don’t mind if I break a few myself.” </p><p>Hostile interest flashes in the Turian’s eyes and he says, “Oh? Planning to cash in the bounties on my head for yourself? Running low on funds, big hero?”</p><p>Ryder yanks a grenade free, hurling it up to where the raiders stand, “Not exactly.” </p><p>Time slows by a second, raiders scattering in the rush of sand and quick bursting fire. Adhi screech in both shock and pain, Ryder taking the distraction, the smoke, to even the field and jump jet up out of the sinkhole, Liam by his side. Wild shots thump the sand, biting at their heels and Cora starts the engines, boosting the Nomad’s automatic shield system so Ryder can slide the scientist into the backseat safely. </p><p>Across the drop, the smoke clears, and Axius kicks a fallen Adhi into the sinkhole, its body rolling lifelessly down the sand. He sees a debt now that needs to be paid, his pack of rabid alien hounds his claim to a throne of credits. “Running, Pathfinder?” He taunts, voice harsh. </p><p>After pulling a sniper rifle free from the backseat, Ryder leaps up onto the Nomad, laying flat on his stomach, positioning himself and his weapon. Axius and his members watch, bullets pinging off the shield uselessly. </p><p>“The only one who should run is you.” He says, low, and then orders Cora, “Give me a window!” </p><p>The shields shut down, whooshing loudly and mask the sound of the first shot, a bullet between the eyes of one human who falls into the pit, limbs loose and joins the Adhi as a casualty, a growing grim reminder of civil unrest. Ryder’s already taking another shot, jerking a raider’s head back and he crumbles beneath the precision. Axius glowers, throwing his arm, “Get them! But leave the Pathfinder for me!” </p><p>Raiders rush back into their vehicles, Ryder catching one last Turian as he ducks to sit, folding him awkwardly out of the half open door and making his partner in the driver’s seat curse. He quickly passes the sniper gun down to Liam who then hefts an even bigger barrel up over his shoulder, and into his Pathfinder’s waiting hands. Kneeling, using strength in his lower back, Ryder takes aim, locking on and as the enemy carriers begin careening around the sinkhole, he presses the red button, smoke bursting from the back as the heat-oriented rocket bursts out like a bat out of hell.  </p><p>It whirls, but ultimately there is no avoiding the collision at such a close distance and while the man in the vehicle jerks the wheel in a last defense, it merely causes the rocket to catch it in the side, first imploding, sucking all the oxygen and life from the inside and then charging the blast, rippling hot, explosive air outward as metal rips free. Cora times the shields so that debris and ammo created fire balls simply shrivel as moths to a zapper against them, leaving two more carriers, only the charred, still flaming chaos remaining of the third. </p><p>Ryder reaches down into the Nomad for another rocket and as the raiders approach, ready to ram through the shield and break windows, Cora puts it in drive, gliding around the wreckage cleanly to use the blackened smoke as coverage. Ryder loads the launcher, crouched atop the moving vehicle, and when he’s ready to take aim, the gang carrier boosting forward, tearing the blue of their shield, paneling a hole open, a Turian leans out from the window, pistol in hand, shooting through the launcher, catching it fire. The front spikes ram the Nomad, crunching metal, cracking panels.</p><p>Ryder tosses it, standing, their shields quick to recharge and wind rushes around, the Turian aiming to wound, trying to hit the Pathfinder’s legs. The rocket launcher roars in a last eruption behind them, sizzling sand hotter and hotter until fading, smoldering and crunching beneath the second vehicles spiked wheels. </p><p>Omni-blade gleaming to life, Ryder lets the bullets tear through the Nomad’s defenses and deflect off his own. The suit shields will only ward off so many shots but the Pathfinder stands unfazed, staring into the tinted windshield and the Turian shouts an expletive, trying now to shoot the man anywhere if just to hit. Looking over his blade, then back to the front of the carrier, Ryder leaps into the air, out of the Nomad’s dome of protection and into the sky, legs tucking and jump jet a splatter in the blue, blue sky. </p><p>His punch guts the engine, blade going straight into the heart of the hood, slamming weight so heavily to the front that the back wheels almost off pop the ground. They spin, narrowly avoiding knocking the third carrier with their drifting backside, tires screeching in sandy protest. Liam is leaning out the window, rifle ready and he shoots at the wheels, hoping to throw the last carrier, knock them off balance. </p><p>Ryder rips his blade free, pulling a grenade off his belt and fisting it inside the hole. The Turian, shock clear on his face kicks the door open while they still drive precariously but Ryder has clear aim and concusses him with a high impact round before he backflips off the hood, using his jump jet to propel him into the air far enough that the explosion of his own grenade doesn’t catch him. Fast protest of metal expanding tears through the air, the strong outer layers holding the explosion tight, pushing it through the cabin.</p><p>He skids in the sand, flames erupting from the crumbled front of the finished carrier and the third whirls tight around his backside, Axius stepping out, holding a hand up to all other raiders. He drops heavy to the ground, looking at Ryder with new, aggressive appreciation. </p><p>“Where’s your morals, that Initiative branded righteous high horse?” Axius begins to circle him, but Ryder only mirrors him, stepping left when Axius steps right. “Don’t you want to rehabilitate me? Make our big happy Nexus family again?” </p><p>“I killed your underlings,” Ryder says, slow and chilled, “And now, I’m going to kill you too.”</p><p>Axius’ cave-like eyes harshen, and he murmurs, exhilaration presenting in tensed shoulders, and talons curling, iron knuckles shined to gleaming freshness, “You are going to pay. I’ll tattoo your blood splatter. You’ll roam with me forever through these sand dunes.”</p><p>“Hit me then.” Ryder challenges, and Reyes, worlds away, feels the words like a strike to his lower organs, “If you can.” </p><p>The first swing cuts wind, spikes streaking the space where Ryder’s head was only moments ago, bringing them in close. Ryder jabs an elbow into the crook of Axius’ arm, throwing it wide and when his omni-blade flares up, Axius grabs the omni-tool itself and sinks his talons in deep, uncaring for the electric jolt that flashes, shocking both of them. Ryder jerks, likely gritting his teeth, and the blade jitters, vanishing to the damage. His boot collides with the Turian’s armor, sending him back, dragging the metal enhanced talons through his omni-tool and ripping function out of it. </p><p> “None of your little toys, Pathfinder.” Axius chides, “Fight me-“ His words crunch in his hard mouth under Ryder’s fist, but he recovers, trying to sideline an already ducking Pathfinder. He catches the upper cut, the angle making it easy to flip Ryder over his own arm, but when he tries to mount the man laying on his back, strong thighs wrap around his neck, and bury his head in the sand, Ryder flipping them and sitting reverse cowboy, the pressure relying on the durability of Axius’ neck. Talons swipe wildly, trying to grab but Ryder stands, uncaring, dodging them lazily, and stands on the man’s hands, loading his shotgun, stance wide. </p><p>Finally Axius unburies his head, breathing, eyes blinking away sand and he snarls, “I said no toys!”</p><p>“And I said I would be breaking rules today.” Ryder aims and blows the Turian’s head clean apart, brittle bone and blood making a rippling dirty splash of what once was a recognizable face. Who is to say who this Turian once was now? Ryder steps off him, holstering his weapon and turns to the final carrier with the last few of Axius’ men. One, fumbling, rushes for the driver’s seat, legs kicking his gun out of the way so they can escape the angel of death. </p><p>Without concern for the sinkholes possibly behind, the carrier rushes backwards to put space between them and then arches widely to the left, almost rolling onto two wheels. Liam trots out of the Nomad, coming closer, “Should we follow?”</p><p>Ryder turns to the Nomad, where the door is open and the scientist is tumbling out, holding weakly to the door for support. </p><p>“No, we have more important things to take care of.”</p><p>He comes in close, offering her a hand and she takes it gratefully, short brown hair messy around her face, relying on him to keep her standing. “Thank you, Pathfinder..” She says, “You saved my life.”</p><p>Softly, noticeably not saying anything to such a statement, Ryder says, “Let’s get you home.”</p><p>Her name, Nora Tallis, becomes one for the stations. A fifteen minutes of fame kind of interest, but she declines most interviews, wanting to simply have her shuttle repaired, research continue and good word go out to Ryder who is the center of controversy. Should he have taken in the anarchist for trial, settled the bounty like a good sheriff? Kandros would certainly say so but those on Kadara find the lawless freedom of the sand dunes a place where Nexus law can’t and won’t reach appropriate. Axius insisted the fight and he lost, forfeiting his life. Respect even flutters about the Outcast who once thought Ryder weak willed to the brutality and demands of their leader, Sloane. If the Nexus wanted so badly to take in Axius, they should have come for him themselves. The Pathfinder is everyone’s judge and executioner.</p><p>Morda ups protection, offering any and all scientists and scouts Krogan companions, freeing Ryder of his obligation to strike fear into the few and far scavengers left. With Strogjaw Grog and Axius gone, Elaaden almost appears tame and Morda is sitting on a throne of opportunity to put her people where she needs them. </p><p> The Tempest is cleared for take-off. Reyes is sure there are a number of requests vying for the Pathfinder’s attention, thousands of ‘little people’ wanting to thrive under the spotlight. And who is the Pathfinder if not accessible? He calls on the Tempest line, knowing well Ryder’s omni-tool is too damaged for any communication to come in on time. </p><p>A woman with a thick, angled accent answers, “Tempest main line.” </p><p>“I’m calling for the Pathfinder. Tell him it’s his Collective informant with something important.”</p><p>Behind her he can hear other comms between members. </p><p>“Jesus Christ, Ryder. Did you drive the Nomad off a cliff backwards? It’s crumpled all the way to the wheel.”</p><p>“They had rammers, what would you expect me to do?”</p><p>“Not let them hit you would be my first educated guess. And you lost the rocket launcher?”</p><p>“Do you want me to go pick up the pieces, Gil?”</p><p>“I swear to God, you are testing me.” </p><p>“Ryder,” The woman’s voice cuts in, “You’ve got a call on the line from your Collective informant when you’ve got a minute. He says it’s important.”</p><p>“Business calls, Gil.”</p><p>“We are <em>not</em> done here, Ryder! I know where you sleep!”</p><p>It takes time for Ryder to make it up to the conference room, but he answers all the same, whenever Reyes calls, a slowly forming truth between them.</p><p>On Reyes’ end it’s a video call, a digital doorway into the conference room, where he can see the Tempest as if standing there in the blue light himself. Ryder is out of his upper armor, still dressed in his bodysuit, black, skin tight, and the telltale signs of his victory is smudged on his cheeks, residue from all the fire and smoke. His chest expands, eyes looking over the pixels. It’s been a couple weeks since they’ve spoken, business, work coming between them. </p><p>“How’s my favorite Pathfinder?” Reyes asks, and Ryder’s lips quirk, and he breathes. Something feels right about the title but maybe not the part he’s used to. </p><p>“Suvi said you called about something important.” Knowing eyes, he tests Reyes’ intention, “This isn’t a private channel.” </p><p>Reyes enjoys toeing the edge of formality and offers, “I could tell you over drinks.” And Ryder minutely swallows, raw in their time apart, thirsty for that space he so easily fell into when he was on Kadara, now parched with efforts to keep sane under political spotlights too bright for comfort. He reigns it in, knowing full and well he does not get to do things simply because he wants to. He needs a reason and Reyes knows this. </p><p>“Sloane’s holding a get-together for the locals. It’s officially an event to let bottled tension seep back out with drinking and partying but diplomatic players on Kadara are going to be there to talk about the Port. Quite an opportunity to touch base about various subjects. An outpost maybe.” </p><p>Ryder pulls his bottom lip into his mouth slowly, unaware of just how decipherable his thoughts are just by his body language. </p><p>“I managed to snag an invite. Care to be my plus-one?” </p><p>Whiskey eyes flashing, questions lingering behind his gaze, Ryder stills, so Reyes says smoothly, levelly, “I promise to be the perfect gentleman.” </p><p>Ryder can’t resist. It’s too appealing. All the groundwork already prepared, the paperwork easy to sign off, and a pledge between the lines, it makes it easy to forget public space of the Tempest, the noise of someone downstairs clearly on the terminal, typing branded messages and ordering supplies, and the comms that echo Gil’s concerns to Cora about the suspension of the Nomad. </p><p>His eyes, liquid fire, hold strong, “And if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?” He says low, the same tone of voice that promised violence to Axius’ gang sitting just beneath the surface, still red hot like a sword coming out of the flames not yet cool. Inquiry waits beneath it, just as clever, just as necessary as the front to get him there. </p><p>Reyes fuels himself on the concept of influence over these sides to Ryder which he thinks might be clawing their way through despite the man’s hard work subduing and keeping them proper, to these sides that he didn’t think could’ve existed at one point. “That can be arranged.” He says coolly even if his blood sings to Ryder’s mirage of decency that wants everything beneath. </p><p>Melting sweetly like chocolate beneath heat, he can see the Pathfinder tonight, all his pent-up energy directed into passion, those muscles tightening with crisp, brutal pleasure behind the security of a locked door and memories only for himself brought to the surface by a recent confirmation. That these expressive details not always obvious speak so clearly to Reyes but quickly, at the distinct sound of a whooshing door opening and a man calling up, “Ryder?” It simmers down deep and Ryder calls back, “I’ll be right there.”</p><p>Reyes waits, watching how Ryder’s brow pinches with the ache of time cut too short, desire prodded but not satiated. But he says, “See you then.” And Reyes lets him go, so he can return to his title, knowing very well he’ll be on the back of the man’s mind all the while. </p><p>Xxx</p><p>Deep into the night, while the Charlatan is assessing written reports and signing off the recent acquisitions, checking his agents’ movements, and their slow but gradual growing presence in Outcast circles, vying for invitations to the party, an email pings up on his monitor. </p><p>A picture, dark, in a cave. There’s the gleam of something atop a rock but what draws the eye truly is the crumpled body beneath the only spot of moonlight filtering in from a hole far above. A Salarian, in a dark suit, hardly an item to his person and neck angled awkwardly, fittingly obvious his cause of death. Reyes can see the gleaming item is a can of coffee, high above, in a nook big enough for one person to sit. He taps his lips thoughtfully with one gloved finger and picks up the call that follows moments later. </p><p>“How does it look?”</p><p>“Like an inexperienced miner made one mistake too many. The baryte is a nice touch.” Reyes studies the outstretched hand reaching for the mineral clump and Radwan hums in appreciation of his art, “Whoever finds him will rely on the details.”</p><p>“Your coffee.” A voice feeds into the call and Radwan grunts in thanks. There is some feedback and that same voice says, “Should I let you finish your call?” Will, from the sound of it. Footsteps retreat and Radwan says, “Tomorrow morning I’ll collect Davidson’s gear. The kid’ll be my cover.”</p><p>“A fresh face will keep their attention better. They are looking for new recruits.”</p><p>“Do we have an idea about the mole?” </p><p>Reyes stares into the logs of Draullir, names he knows like the back of his hand down the list, “Vaguely.” They leave the call without much more said. Neither find pleasantries in small talk, each minute important. When the time comes, they’ll fall back together. Until then, Reyes works the details to the cost of paying Rob’s flight back to the Nexus, and accounts for Lachlan’s arrival. He loads her data onto his computer and reads the details of the Nexus’ security systems, the schematics of their dome shields, the level of electrical output and the data chips necessary to prevent those leaving the safety of the outpost from accidently being assumed an enemy upon returning. Guards towers are stationed, but mostly it is to assess danger from afar, the wildlife, and to confirm their recon agents are not sending out flares because they are in need of assistance. </p><p>Morning hits, his night spent filing away Initiative innards, their wires and codes, and as he drinks his coffee from the safety of Keema’s booth, watching Outcasts call out to the public that by joining their ranks, their protection fees will not only decrease but they’ll be issued the protective armor famous for its sturdiness against the Kett, he eyes for faces he recognizes. Who would want to miss the opportunity to drink some of the strongest tequilas in the Milky Way and shake hands with the Port’s savior? A certain blond stands in a white t-shirt and pilot pants tucked into boots lazily tied, accepting the invite into the exile brand, canines flashing in a victorious grin. He has an obvious mark about his neck, but when he trots back to his companion, Radwan, who is wearing Davidson’s gear, the pieces all fall together and Reyes turns his gaze away, eyes finding Rob with a duffle striding through the crowd, bumping shoulders without apology, headed towards the docks. </p><p>A pity the man didn’t want to stay for the fun. </p><p>Sloane’s political parties used to be less about drawing in new grunts and more about strategic power play, Sloane using her relevance as the strongest and hardest hitting mercenary on the Port to lead, gain favor and foothold as she announced her means to take out their enemies. On the decided party days, only chosen and affiliated persons were allowed out in the markets, businesses closed and all other consumption of alcohol unassociated with the Outcast brand labeled illegal activity. Now it is a grab for soldiers, an advert for her own cause and a poorly concealed bandage to the Outcast’s wound of bad footing. Does she realize by claiming stake to every hand that reaches towards her offering that she is letting in the very chameleons she is trying to stomp out? </p><p>At their peak of influence, Sloane allowed the parties to simply happen whether she was present or not, but now she is using her own name to recruit, rope fresh bodies into contract and pull them in under the guise of wealth and expensive drink. Failing security is evident, numbers becoming the focus, as she hopes for blind aggression influenced by immediate gratification to help her fend off a growing shadow. </p><p>Keema approaches from afar, gliding into her own booth with shining eyes and quite the pleasant mood for the early hour. She looks him over, seeing the darkness beneath his eyes and the reserved expression and asks knowingly, “Are you waiting?”</p><p>Waiting? He drinks his coffee, looking at her over his mug and then he sees. The Tempest is gliding down, floating into the docks for disembarking and paperwork. He flicks his dark eyes back to Keema who gives an innocent half shrug as if to say the conclusion seemed appropriate. The comms ping with notifications likely about the sudden arrival of the Pathfinder. </p><p>Peebee is the first off the ship and into the markets, chatting up the vendors, hands moving quickly, fluidly in rapid conversation and he can hear her laugh, sometimes boisterous and cheerful and distinct. The sun ticks by, and Reyes realizes the Asari follows no protocol and likely jumped ship the moment the ground was close enough not to break her legs on the impact. </p><p>She glows, obviously flirting with a Turian selling gun powder by the kegs, leaning on the counter with a broadened grin, which is returned when she says just the right thing, enticing the Turian closer. She nods, indicating a direction and he shrugs, talons tapping the metal counter in playful nonchalance. </p><p>An Angaran woman comes forward to Keema’s booth, tears in her eyes, distress evident and she reaches for the other’s hands, “Oh Keema!” She says, emotions tight, “Is that not the Pathfinder landing?”</p><p>“It is, Jataa,” Keema holds her companion’s hands tighter, drawing her closer across the metal counter, “What ails you?” </p><p>“My sister, Morga. I have not seen her in three moons! I fear the worst..”</p><p>Keema nods sympathetically, “You wish to request assistance from the Pathfinder?”</p><p>“He could find her, could he not? Him and his all-seeing eyes. I have nothing to offer.. no credits to convince anyone to search otherwise.” The confession is a painful rush of air, half a sob, and her shoulders shiver with grief. “We are never apart this long.”</p><p>“Shh,” Keema hushes her, leaving the booth to take Jataa by the shoulders and pull her closer, “Do not fill your mind with the worst possibilities. Come, let me soothe your aching heart. I am sure the Pathfinder will have time for Morga but first you must gather yourself.” They walk on to find privacy for anguish, secured by the ever-capable hands that cup their universe without gripping too tightly. Time ticks by, business growing, and electric neon signs glowing to life as the market breathes. </p><p>To speak of something brings it into existence and Ryder walks into the market, Reyes slowly lowering his coffee mug. </p><p>Long legs in crisp white slacks and perfectly shined dress shoes, the taper of his waist accented by the uniform, white with blue accent, and gloves, white. He adjusts his sleeve, hair swept back, teeth just as striking as his formal appearance while he talks next to Liam who is similarly dressed, although the rank on his breast is clearly different. Someone’s hand finds Ryder’s shoulder and Gil, a man Reyes has only seen in passing comes around the other side, but he is in a jumpsuit, fitting attire for their engineer. He indicates around, giving Ryder a pointed look, and then pushes off, making his way into the markets. </p><p>Liam is laughing, and they stand, making idle conversation, either unaware or uncaring for the gazes they draw before Liam’s eyes light up mischievously, and he nods towards Peebee across the market. He grins, and jerks a thumb before trotting off, the uniform not making him any less of a troublemaker at heart. </p><p>Ryder stills, the market moving around him, and he looks across it, into the vendors proudly boasting sales and drinks in the hands of off duty night shifts, at the Outcast gaggles in their security booths sneering, cackling, cigarettes between their fingers and credits clear in their gluttony, and then as his eyes drift, he finds something and they make striking eye contact across all the people, all the heads and moving cargo. His stride confident, he doesn’t flinch at the stains, unafraid of getting his white uniform dirty, unafraid of the filth that is evident on this planet. It’s been just enough time to cool first impressions, to give time to distinction but Reyes doesn’t see it. </p><p>“I didn’t expect to find you here.” Ryder says, back to adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. He doesn’t say but it’s clear, he’s pleasantly surprised, emphasis on the pleasant. Murmurs crawl closer, but shrink away when Drack and Vetra file in, presences just as loud. The weeks apart then can only speak to the strength of the mutuality between them, and even though there isn’t a day Reyes hasn’t seen the Pathfinder on some screen, whether his own or someone else’s, or heard news, he doesn’t think he will tire of how those whiskey eyes crease on him, or find their burn any less appealing. </p><p>“It’s a little early to be in the bars.” He muses, watching Ryder smooth his uniform jacket to sit on the stool and it draws him closer, his coffee mug gliding onto the surface. There’s the pull of gravity between them, and Ryder gazes up at him, eyelashes dark and very alive. </p><p>The world narrows, the details that were once so stark and clear tunneling, and he breathes a familiar cologne, crisp, enveloping. Ryder leans in slightly and agrees, “There are other vices to be had.” </p><p>Indeed.</p><p>Giving the man a long and precise up and down, he asks, “Did you dress up just to see me?”</p><p>Ryder chuckles, his hand ticking closer and explains, “I had a conference with the Head Diplomat Angaran Ambassador while en route. Normally it’s preferred in person but Isa de Navar refused to speak with the Director unless I was present and that would have taken at least a few more days. Wouldn’t have disarmed without his request fulfilled so,” He indicates to the uniform with his eyes and that sharp smile and high collar are dangerously burning themselves into Reyes’ mind’s eye. Effortlessly contained power, all decent and buttoned up, visible in just the gleam of two ember eyes. </p><p>Slowly leaning down, fluidly leaning onto the counter, hip cocked, chin resting cleanly on one gloved hand, with the other a mere finger from Ryder’s, he murmurs, “Didn’t have time to change?” </p><p>Ryder breathes, and he says, “I was in a hurry.” The heated distraction is obvious. </p><p>Quirking a knowing, smug smile, he stares into the man’s honesty, welcoming him to the coverage of darkness regardless the time of day. Despite his all-nighter, his stomach is thick with desire, long overdue for release and craving one thing. Nothing could be more satisfying, not steaming coffee, not the penetrating deep rest of sleep, not the victory of taking those who hate him out on their own gambles. Slowly stepping back, pulling his hand away, he drifts further into the depths of the stall. The coffee mug is left, half finished. </p><p>Ryder stands, watching. He is bright, clean, all the clear lines of authority and heroic resilience. Even with the blood on his hands, he is a savior, and he wears white. Gloved hand gliding around the well-used metal of the counter, his shining black shoes stop at the division between the market and the stall, edging the line. They stare at each other.</p><p>One step in, Ryder slips behind the counter, coming into the shadow, leaving the public space. The market garbles behind, some shouting, voices sharp, and machinery kicks on, the cutting of defense plates bought just moments prior. Orange settles warm overtop, glowing against reflective surfaces, the sky blurring with color. But for them it is just the settling of shadow.</p><p>Further, further until they are between the supply crates, the various tools and items package and sealed with theft deterrent technology, they disappear from the watching eyes of the market, footsteps and voices trailing by. The wall meets Reyes back, just a touch away from the secret backdoor and Ryder lifts a hand to his collar, unlatching it, exposing his throat and then unbuttons and shucks his uniform jacket off, tossing it atop one crate so he can kiss the man mouth hot. </p><p>Hand shooting up, he grips Ryder’s hair, jerking his head back to leave harsh and spine-tingling kisses along his throat and makes the man groan between clenched teeth sharply. His knees quiver, and Reyes is almost sure the man will drop to them, so he whirls them around, slamming Ryder to the wall by a strong grip on his black undershirt and momentum coming firmly between his legs. That hand from his hair glides down, having protected him from banging his head, a peek of skin at Ryder’s hip winking at him as he looks the man up and down, at the feverish warmth of aroused eyes and already reddening kiss marks. Arm curling, Ryder pulls him in for another searing kiss, and his groin floods with appreciation as he ticks his legs open wider for Reyes to settle closer, to press their bodies against one another. </p><p>“Ryder?” A voice calls, searching, and the Pathfinder startles, stiffening while Reyes turns over his shoulder to glance between the cargo bins. Gil walks slowly towards the booth, arching his neck to see around to the next stall in case his Pathfinder has gone around a corner. “I was sure he came this way..” The man mutters, coming closer, and if he goes even another step to the right, he is sure to see that distinctly white jacket thrown on the stack of crates. Reyes slowly reaches out, waiting for Gil to turn his attention to the left, gaze going long before he pulls it down and takes Ryder’s hand, “This way.” He says low, and the door opens to a passcode in just the right spot. </p><p>They slip inside as Gil puts his hands on the counter, peering into the darkened shop, before scratching his stubble in confusion, whirling around to call for Liam and Peebee who are arguing lightly across the market. </p><p>Ryder’s looking over his shoulder, breathing, but Reyes doesn’t give him too much time to analyze the details of one of their many adopted secret corridors as he leads down, jacket thrown over his arm. </p><p>“Collective tunnels?” The Pathfinder inquires after a moment to calm his racing heart, dress shoes clicking nicely with the low ceilings as they descend a flight of stairs. He is not protesting the chance for escape. </p><p>“Not originally.” Reyes answers, knowing well only a select few use this exact passageway and they are very in tune with the workings of the spy society. They travel deeper, Ryder slower, gloves now tucked away in a back pocket, bare fingers touching old Angara markings faded on the walls. Doors pass, keypads and shafts that have ladders going up and down but they continue until they are taking a certain elevator, tight enough to fit them shoulder to shoulder if just barely, into the slums and out into a narrow alleyway above the Tartarus. It is only a quick walk to his small room, and upon closing the door, the jacket is tossed by habit onto his chair and Ryder relaxes against the door, hands in his pockets, familiarity all about. </p><p>Reyes watches him, leaning back against the desk, loosely folding his arms. </p><p>“I didn’t presume incorrectly that you had time,” Ryder edges, sincere, “Did I?”</p><p>“I told you, you can stay over anytime you wanted to.” Reyes reminds him, and that is enough. He gets in the shower, discarding his clothes at random, shoes kicked off, pants in a bunch, omni-tool noticeably lacking, not yet repaired. While Ryder prepares himself, Reyes sits at the computer and transfers the funds necessary to Draullir, confirming requests to the weapons chamber and storage for both Dorado and Batus, forwarding the details to Crux. He allocates resources to ground teams for armor improvements and vehicle defense as the tension cracks their system with pressure. Losing men to the building division on the Port defeats the purpose of dodging outright civil war. Minimizing his command windows, he settles into the simplicity of monitoring jobs that are increasingly becoming merely a façade of his persona. </p><p>The chair slowly turns around by another’s lead, Ryder leaning into a kiss when he has him facing opposite of the screen, hands finding the arms. Shower hot and underwear pulled back on for coverage, he glows with health, the purple aching reminder of a gang leader faded by time. </p><p>“Care for a distraction?” He asks mildly, smiling into Reyes’ lips. </p><p>“Expecting one.” Reyes replies, and Ryder grips the back of the chair for a better angle to deepen the next kiss. </p><p>They find the bed, sinking into the escape, Ryder gasping beneath his weight, flat on his stomach for a completely different reason than just days prior. He arches his back, the flesh of his ass red by Reyes’ hand and hips and mouth kissed rosy. His throat carries the sting of hard kisses, hands squeezing the sheets with the intensity of their union. </p><p>He draws an arm around Ryder’s chest, pulling him, angling the penetration upward and loves the startling tight grip of the man’s fingers on his hip to steady himself. There’s sweat lining the muscles of his back, his cheeks flushed, and he groans, a heavenly noise when Reyes slows for a carefully angled sinking thrust, other arm wrapping about Ryder’s hips to hold them together for a kiss. He lets Ryder squeeze him, breath heavy, hand caressing a freckled chest to settle around his throat, noticing the man’s erection twitch to the pressure of his fingers. </p><p>“Ryder..” He murmurs, pleased, grabbing him, and beginning to stroke to the timing of his hips. It makes the grip on his own hip go harsh, Ryder grimacing in the rush of pleasure, head thrown back to Reyes shoulder as he crests, going vice-like inside, ripping Reyes’ orgasm from him and covering his hand with a rush of pleasure. The sheets reflect intimacy, and are pulled free, Ryder’s legs jello and his smile shaky but genuine. </p><p>They wash, throw on a fresh sheet and flop down, immediately falling into the sinking spell of a powerful release, muscles loosening and legs tangling. Ryder pulls him in close, nose pressed to his neck, and sighs in comfort. They don’t think about work, or places they need to be, just hot arms and the wakefulness of Kadara moving around them, keeping the world distracted as they take a moment of reprieve. </p><p>A voice alerts him up out of sleep, one eye slipping open to the confusion of an uninvited someone in his private room, and he notices it’s in the bed with them. SAM speaks again, “Pathfinder, please wake up.”</p><p>Reyes calms, surprised by the depth in which he had slept to not have noticed that neutral, intelligent lilt to the request. Ryder’s arm is still draped over him, nestled into the pillow, hair messy from sleeping on it damp and kiss marks maroon. His brows pinch and SAM insists, “Liam has been trying to get ahold of you.”</p><p>“Who..?” Ryder grunts, half asleep, tugging Reyes closer in protest.</p><p>“Liam, Pathfinder. He’s been expecting you for forty-five minutes.”</p><p>Hazel eyes crackling like the bottom of a campfire squint, nose pinching with his sleepy frown, “Expecting-..?” He jerks up, wide awake like the knowledge is cold water to the face, “Shit!” He jumps from the bed, hips giving out briefly making him curse in a very different tone, hand flying out to grab the bed. Recovering, he yanks on his underwear and his pants, throwing on his shirt. </p><p>Reyes watches lazily from the bed, head resting on a hand. The sheets have pooled nicely about his hips and his eyes fold with amusement seeing Ryder hiss bending down to put his shoes on, which earns him a heated glance. Before rushing out the door, Ryder takes two long strides, bending down for a kiss which lingers and he tosses a small box from his pocket as he exits, “For you.” The door closes and Reyes turns it over, Ryder’s brand of cigarettes a pleasant surprise, his cravings singing praise. </p><p>He makes it out to the railings of the slums about the time Ryder comes trotting up to the warden’s wall where Liam is suited up, arms crossed and brow raised with questions. Reyes pushes his own hair back, cigarette between his fingers, and leans on the metal. Angara pass behind him, speaking Shelesh. </p><p>“Where have you <em>been</em>?” Liam pops off the wall, irritation making him near sighted but then he notices his leader’s attire, the messy hair, the untucked shirt and says, “First, where is your jacket?”</p><p>Belatedly, Ryder looks down, just as surprised, and grabs his t-shirt like it might know. “I left it somewhere.” He says, unsure although Reyes knows exactly where it is, still laying across his chair in his room. </p><p>“You left it somewhere.” His teammate echoes incredulously. He shakes his head, amazed and says, “Well, whatever, <em>wherever</em> you’ve been better have paid your taxes and done your laundry.” He nods his head over to the gates where two bikes sit, sleek, shining, with reinforced cargo roped onto the back. “I’ve had everything ready for an hour.”</p><p>Ryder’s grin grows, and he walks forward, eyes shining, “Gil actually let you commission two?”</p><p>Liam, following a step behind lets the man soak in the fresh paint and leather seats, “With the Nomad still going through repairs, he kind of had no choice. By the way,” He holds out a hand to indicate oncoming news as Ryder sweeps an appreciative hand across the seat, “Gil put down his payment for emergency defense shield upgrades.”</p><p>Ryder turns to him, pulling his hand away.</p><p>“He said he tried to find you but with your omni-tool still on the fritz he decided to go for it. Said it would pay itself off.” </p><p>“Tell me Vetra at least helped him get the best price.”</p><p>“Yeah, 5,000 for the materials but he says he can install the boosters himself.”</p><p>“And the bikes?”</p><p>Liam’s smile goes cocked, and he says, “Let’s say I left that to my personal account.”</p><p>Ryder looks young and free again and he grabs up the helmet, black just like his shirt and straddles the bike, “What’re we waiting for, let’s go.”</p><p>“Woah, woah, a little inconsiderate from the guy who left me waiting for an hour.”</p><p>“Forty-five minutes.”</p><p>“Fifty-three.”</p><p>They grin, and Liam says, “Cora would have my head if I let you go out into the badlands in a t-shirt and your uniform slacks.”</p><p>“Hand me your pistol.”</p><p>Liam obliges and Ryder glides it into the elastic of his pants, “Now I’m going out in my t-shirt, uniform slacks with a pistol.”</p><p>“She will seriously kill me if you get hurt.”</p><p>Ryder straps the helmet on, “We’re just delivering some medical supplies. I know you didn’t skimp on the engines.”</p><p>Quirking a lip, appreciating Ryder knows him, he reveals, “1099 CC.”</p><p>Ryder spreads his hands, “And you expect me not to want to get out there as fast as possible?”</p><p>Grabbing up the other helmet, Liam finally concedes, “You’re the leader. I’ll let you talk Cora down.” He sits and they start their engines. Indicating with a hand, Ryder requests the gate open, kicking back the kick stand, and says, “Race you there.” He pops a wheely before tearing out of the slums, with Liam shouting after him, “You don’t even have the coordinates!” Before rushing to chase him. </p><p>Reyes follows the bike for as far as his eyes can see then he drops the cigarette, crushing it under a boot thinking it all a fitting welcome for the Pathfinder back to Kadara. </p><p>Xxx</p><p>Ryder comes back no worse for wear, sweating, grinning, shirt stuck to his back and glowing. The delivery a success, his first day back on Kadara thrilling, hitting all the right spots, he’s basking in the freedom that the last few weeks of Elaaden had stripped from him. </p><p>Cora’s stinging disapproval does nothing to deter his mood, but both men avoid Lexi stepping out, arms folded and waiting for them at the Tempest loading ramp, knowing well their hiding spots. Their laughter tugs her frown and they all come out, walking the ramp together, companionship evident and carefree, as if they were not the sole front force defending the universe from violent subjugation. </p><p>Sloane has to prepare for her gathering, and cannot deal with the Pathfinder, letting him freely handle odd jobs, requests from people desperate for some semblance of structure in reserved silence. He answers Jataa’s cries for Morga, who collapses beneath the anguish of hearing her passing, an accident with the rush of fresh water in the pipes and he attends the funeral, letting the sand smoke run over him as he offers a prayer, holding Jataa’s lonely hands for emotional support afterwards. The Wind Farm welcomes Ryder with open arms, Thrasia flirting shamelessly, endlessly pleased to see the Pathfinder help secure their perimeters, a cat with a toy she both wants to eat and keep. </p><p>In Tartarus with the blur of the hour, the ever-busy Pathfinder agrees to find a missing Salarian as he himself is on his way to a certain smuggler in his usual room. He mentions it to Reyes who can tell now it is finally time to put down his ground rule about the Pathfinder or else watch trouble brew about authority. If Ryder is going to walk upon the grounds of the Collective, he will need to be accounted for. A label, a claiming even, that will strike down bottom feeders and deter more capable schemes simply by the unmistakable and irrefutable plainness of the rule. </p><p>Don’t touch the human Pathfinder. </p><p>Ryder grins, cracking a nut between his canines, tossing the shell into the small bowl provided, telling Reyes of his and Liam’s close call with an Eiroch while riding their bikes over the hills back from the supply drop-off, oblivious to the Charlatan’s claim on his life and the suffering that will incur at any oversight, any minor offense that even appears to overlook the order. He is understanding of the Collective agent sending emails while they are together, just as prone to his own vanishing spells. Reyes dismisses the hourly security logs, closing the screen and in the lull says, “Still haven’t fixed your omni-tool, I see.”</p><p>“Gil usually handles repairs.” Ryder takes a shot, breathing in the fire of vodka, “But he’s had his plate full with the Nomad so it’s been on the backburner.” The quality shows by the involuntary pinch in his brow. </p><p>They’re waiting for stock to replenish, missions between worlds taking agents like Fox longer than usual, especially with the Outcast outbuying and snatching up any liquor to touch Kadara soil for their event. Reyes has his secret cache but to pour it down the throats of half sloshed club dwellers is low on his priority list. Whiskey unavailable, tequila missing on the shelf, it’s cheap, off brand vodka that bites.  </p><p>Reyes picks up his shot glass, leaning down, catching Ryder’s gaze, “I could fix it for you.” </p><p>Ryder’s picking another nut up and when he pinches it hard enough to crack it from its shell to put it in his mouth, he grins, “What’s that going to cost me?”</p><p>Reyes swallows flame pretending to be a liquid, but any sting liquor offers has long since stopped having any affect on his expression. Clacking down the glass, he smirks, “You think I wouldn’t do it for free?”</p><p>Ryder gives him a pointed look, and says artfully, “The credits’ll come in monthly payments. Interest can’t be more than three percent or I’ll never pay it off.”</p><p>“Biweekly dues, two and a half percent.” </p><p>“You’re going to put me in the red.” </p><p>“Then you’ll owe me more.” Reyes says smoothly, “I’ll do it for the simple cost of the parts necessary. No extra fees. And if you miss a payment,” His brows lower, hand trailing along the back of the couch slow and crawling, “I’ve got a few ideas of what might happen.”</p><p>Amused, Ryder guesses, “You’ll send some loan sharks after me? Certainly won’t look good for my rep.”</p><p>“I like to settle things behind closed doors. No reason to drag the whole universe into it. Miss a payment, Ryder, find out what I’ll do.”</p><p>“Don’t tempt me.” </p><p>“Finest processer in Andromeda and none of those pesky factory locks, all in your reach.”</p><p>Licking his teeth, Ryder examines him, interest piqued, “Where are you getting your parts?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t be one of Kadara’s best contacts if I told you my methods.” </p><p>Ryder concedes, dipping his head in acknowledgment then edges closer, “And you’ll be the one putting it together?” </p><p>“With these very hands.”</p><p>Consideration leaves just the sensation of the music from downstairs on the floor and the faintest buzz of Ryder’s suit whirling with power. “I’ll bring it around.” He finally says and his agent smirks with the victory, gratified.  </p><p>Reyes pours him a celebratory shot, “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Pathfinder.” </p><p>Ryder pours back, “I expect to see your work hands-on.”</p><p>“Hands-on?” Reyes echoes, arching one slow eyebrow as they lift their glasses. </p><p>Glowing red all around, darkness melds into the corners of his suit, but from above the lights hit his hair and double the shine back in his eyes along with the tubes of power, hazel going pooling blood in color, “Is that an issue?” He doesn’t deny the innuendo, staring, but he already has Reyes in the process of his cheers. </p><p>They clink, Reyes not missing a beat, “Not at all.”</p><p>And the blaze from the liquor goes straight down, sinking deep with the memory of Ryder smirking through the burn, seemingly just as victorious.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. 645 Years Old</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Key figures find presence at a party thrown by the infamous warlord, Sloane Kelly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the support! Every comment has meant the world to me and I've been excited to write this scene from my own perspective since I started this project, haha! Can you all believe we made it here? I've got a thousand other ideas I want to get moving as well! (((: Hope this chapter is an enjoyable read!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A picture in the early dawn, with the sky still a muted pink, gentle like the underside of a kitten’s stomach and the clouds delicate whisps, feeds in to Draullir’s security tower. Crux and her white mug stand, Lynx glancing up from her datapad, her own coffee in hand. It’s an automatic process for all moving things, motion sensors filing into the security feeds and blipping up on the permanent monitor above head but it is not an animal or a scheduled drop-off. </p>
<p>“What’s that?” The Asari asks, gracefully pulling her legs down from the railings. </p>
<p>“It’s a couple of bikes.” Crux says evenly, “Non-Collective. Coming this way.”</p>
<p>The cameras installed pick up all movement, but she flips on her bodycam, and Lynx follows suit. Putting down her mug, shrugging on her double gun holster and fastening it into place, she says, “Let me handle this.”</p>
<p>Crux glances to her, pale lips arching ever so slightly behind a final sip. Lynx’s eyes flash as she descends the ladder, hopping down easily from the last handful of rungs just as the bikes pull up, gliding to a clean stop at a reasonable distance to not provoke hostility. </p>
<p>The air is warm, tepid, and glows on the mountains, a sheen of moisture. The scene could be called picturesque if one didn’t know where they were and the dangers that awaited just out of sight. The Pathfinder steps off his parked motorcycle, suited up, a black streak in the ashen greens and greys. He removes his helmet, placing it on the seat as Liam leans forward on his handlebars, motor running, posture seemingly relaxed. Lynx approaches. </p>
<p>“Early morning, Pathfinder? Had your coffee yet?” She asks simply out of professional curtesy; she is not one to cater to small talk.</p>
<p>“Sorry if we interrupted your first cup of the day.” Ryder says amiably, Liam lifting a tumbler behind him, “Still halfway through mine!” And Lynx actually gives a half smile, loosening into a casual stance, arms folding. “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“Missing persons.” Ryder says, nodding to the cave, “Heard he was mining here. For baryte.”</p>
<p>“Running errands for the common person?” </p>
<p>“No man left behind.” Ryder reasons and she respects the loyalty, nodding, looking over the grounds, the peace of the morning and the dark, yawning opening of their territory. Turns back to him, “This is a Collective claimed resource. Even if your man was here, he wasn’t supposed to be.”</p>
<p>“I’m not condoning any activities he was doing, just confirming a lead.”</p>
<p>“Normally you’d either need a permit or Collective ID to even enter Draullir but the Charlatan’s vouched for you so I’ll clear you to search.”</p>
<p>“The Charlatan did?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Her lips are like a blade, razor sharp in a smile, and a wind picks up over the hills, travelling the valleys, “Regulations for contact stand on one basic rule about you now. Look but don’t touch.” </p>
<p>Ryder glances over his shoulder at Liam who has his helmet off now, drinking a splash of coffee and the man shrugs, the news just as fresh to him.  </p>
<p>Seeing the steam coil from the lid, Lynx remembers her own coffee likely growing cold and with the possible threat neutralized before even a gun was drawn, she mellows from the conversation, “You’re the only Pathfinder, and the reason we have clean water. Keeping you alive benefits the whole damn universe, as much as that sounds like an exaggeration.” She waves them on, walking back towards the watch tower, “But don’t think that gives you any special clearance. Baryte mining here is for Collective members only!” </p>
<p>“<em>Not</em> mining.” Ryder corrects lowly, and then nods Liam on, so they can move their bikes out of the way to head into the cave. Before Crux and Lynx have their bodycams turned back into standby mode, the representatives look upon one another and Crux says smoothly, “I saw you looking at his cultural ambassador.”</p>
<p>Throwing herself into her seat, Lynx snorts, “Hardly.”</p>
<p>“Liam Kosta, was it?”</p>
<p>“Change the main video for the surveillance cameras already, they’re inside.”</p>
<p>“So you <em>are</em> looking.”</p>
<p>“Shut up.” Lynx’s bodycam goes black. Crux’s catches the softest air of laughter before following suit and the video footage is left to the planted cameras inside Draullir. No other security is necessary for a man who has no reason to rely on desperate tactics to find his tomorrow. They know his face, his motive and his word is as golden as contract. </p>
<p>Team Pathfinder walk through the cave passages, lights turned on, casually chatting, mostly Liam recapping his grammatical mistakes in his Shelesh that caused his Angara contact to giggle endlessly at him over their call the day before. </p>
<p>“But to get serious,” Liam begins, stepping over a fallen couple of rocks, pocketed and dusty.</p>
<p>“There was actually business happening between you two late last night? Not just flirting and laughter?” Ryder asks innocently, following the curve out into an open pocket of space where sunlight filters in and the ceiling breathes. He looks across the area, slowing. </p>
<p>“Says the guy-“</p>
<p>Pointing a finger, Ryder interrupts, “Don’t finish that sentence.”</p>
<p>“Oh come on, Ryder.” Liam continues playfully, “You think I didn’t put the pieces together when you were late the other day?” He follows, hardly searching, only making sure not to lose his balance as they descend further into the pale, dusty light, “It would have been more believable if you had at least put your uniform back-“</p>
<p>“I see something.” </p>
<p>Muttering in defeat, “The glorious Pathfinder and his miraculous timing…” His eyes find what Ryder’s seen and they approach a fallen, crumpled body glistening in the sunrays filtering in. Bending down to examine the Salarian, eyes dull, mouth ever so slightly open in the faintest echo of shock, Ryder picks up the baryte near outstretched fingers and rolls it in his hand. “Looks like he took a hard fall.”</p>
<p>Liam sighs, “Poor guy. All for some baryte.” </p>
<p>SAM speaks up, “Although we do not have your omni-tool for scanning, Pathfinder, it does appear that from the height of that overhanging just above it would be possible to fall and cause such an injury.” </p>
<p>Gingerly slipping his fingers into the chest pocket for any confirmation of identity, Ryder pulls out an ID card, one stamped for approval to enter the markets, and the Salarian’s name, his picture. “We won’t have enough room on the bikes to carry him back to the slums. I’ll borrow this for Derc.” He flashes it to Liam and then pockets it. </p>
<p>On their walk back, they pass a young blond in mismatched armor, who watches them from the corner of his eyes, chin just hitting Liam’s shoulder in height, making his stare curve up from beneath his brows. Unable to resist one last look at the retreating back, Liam leans into Ryder, whispering, “Now does that look like someone mining to you?”</p>
<p>“No, but this is the Collective. I’m sure there’s more to these caves than just minerals.”</p>
<p>They exit into the morning ripe sky, marmalade and bleeding raspberries, leaving behind Draullir’s secrets and the agent sent to confirm a job accomplished. He slows down, seeing the faintest of movements out in the open before he leans his mouth into his omni-tool, murmuring, “They found him. They’re heading back to the slums now with his identification.” Will makes sure neither man is watching as he turns down a familiar path with its low angled slant and tight ceiling, gaining access to a certain door hidden by just the right coverage of rock at most angles. </p>
<p>Tartarus is sparce for people, the club music echoing into the ceilings and going hollow with the volume down. Most cages are empty, the stage dark with the girls either sleeping or taking their personal time and the few who are drinking keep to themselves and their cup. Derc is sitting at his usual table, datapads spread and omni-tool open, the light of the screen sucking the color from his face. Engrossed in his work, sighing into it, he doesn’t notice Ryder approach immediately, picking up a datapad to double check something. </p>
<p>“Oh!” He says, surprised. “Pathfinder..” Glancing over Ryder’s shoulder into the deserted dance floor, Derc lowers the datapad, closing his omni-tool and relaxes minimally at their solitude. What he doesn’t notice is someone standing above head, leaning on the railings, omni-tool open. </p>
<p>“I take it since you’re back here without him… you don’t bring good news.” </p>
<p>Ryder offers the ID card, and says genuinely, “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Eyes moving slowly against the news, it takes Derc a belated moment to take the card from him, reaction delayed in the grim understanding of his agent’s passing. He looks at the picture, at a Salarian now nothing more than a reverberation, one destined to become smaller and smaller in the darkness of the universe and sighs, releasing the tiniest sliver of deep-felt emotion. </p>
<p>The Salarian lowers the card carefully, “I see… How did he die?”</p>
<p>“Seems like he fell while grabbing a piece of baryte from a ledge.”</p>
<p>“A piece of baryte..?” Derc echoes incredulously underneath his breath, touching his thin mouth with wandering fingers. For a long thought, he doesn’t see the Pathfinder or hear the distinct crack of a coffee can opening above. Liam shifts on his feet, eyes dancing along the Salarian’s notes and various deals, leaning forward ever so slightly after a tentative glance to Derc to make sure he isn’t overstepping boundaries obviously. </p>
<p>“And you said a fall was the cause of death?” Derc reconfirms as if he can see the scene but there is a piece that does not belong, logically a sound truth but not one he was expecting. He sits back, ID gripped in his three fingers, an anchor in a sea with harshening waves. </p>
<p>“He suffered a broken neck.” </p>
<p>A shadow casts over his face, darkening around the eyes. </p>
<p>“Thank you, Pathfinder.” He eventually says, nodding with muted but clear regard, “I’ll have assistance called to help me retrieve his body. You’ve… done me a great service.” Cold, blue light glows from above, Tartarus’ automatic rotation blinking through the entirety of the club. One lone Salarian in the spotlight, head hanging, datapads spread but no longer the focus, they leave him to his loss and his private thoughts, hands cupping the ID card. He will not be the last to be struck by the permanence of the universe, and not the final recipient of the Pathfinder as a messenger. </p>
<p>At the bar, leaning into the counter with a drink in hand, Drack is minding his business and keeping company to the outward silence of a busy mind. Liam notices him, passing a Turian who is all shoulders, making sure to keep his alcohol either in the cup or to his bloodstream. </p>
<p>“There’s Drack.” </p>
<p>At his name, the Krogan looks up, facials opening ever so slightly, welcoming his teammates. “Nice little hole in the wall, isn’t it?” He rises up off the counter, armor loud, thumping with his movement, powerfully heavy. His hand doesn’t release his half-finished drink, but his stance has widened, and any contemplation, or distance in his gaze is gone for the present moment. Behind him Kian is smoking, sitting on a stool with the lull in orders, watching the screen where Isa De Navar is speaking to Director Tann in a public press conference, the Nexus inviting Angara inside her walls and offering cultural adaptations to make it all the more hospitable. </p>
<p>“You find this cozy?” Liam raises an eyebrow, half listening to the conference. </p>
<p>“It’s got personality.” Drack elaborates, fluidly gliding his drink into his mouth. “Although the liquor this week is about as good as warm Kaerkyn sac juice.” </p>
<p>Disgusted, Liam returns his full attention to the conversation, “As opposed to cold sac juice?”</p>
<p>“Cool sac juice goes pulpy.” And Drack grins devilishly at the revolted half glare he earns, Liam protesting, “Why would you even know that?”</p>
<p>“I’ve tried many things. I think you humans call it taste testing. It’s proper science.”</p>
<p>“More like a sick nightmare hazing.”</p>
<p>“Have a drink, Kosta, be the one to haze not be hazed.” Drack pretends to check a watch, reptilian eyes folding with amusement, “The pre-gaming is just getting started. I’ll even buy your first round.”</p>
<p>“Pre-game!” The man repeats, stunned, “For the party later today? We’ve got hours in between then and now.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Drack rumbles, “Perfect chance to get on a few Outcast’s good sides and dip our glasses into their better stock. There’s reliable word about them giving interested members the tastier tequila. Say the right things here and there, smooth riding the rest of the night.”</p>
<p>Interested, Liam snorts a laugh, coming forward, “They’ll never believe you’re going to join their gang of pirates. You’re team Tempest.”</p>
<p>Drack circles an arm around him, putting out a finger, “You’d be surprised at how easily you can get a man by the balls of his ego. The right squeeze,” He mimes crudely for effect and Liam slaps at the hand, “And you’ll have him like putty.”</p>
<p>“What do you think, Ryder-“ Liam looks over his shoulder, completely turning around when he sees his leader is nowhere to be found, “Ryder?” </p>
<p>A man with a jagged face scar passes by coming off the stairs, seamlessly placing his empty coffee can on the counter as he exits the club, the doors gliding shut behind him, the last indicator he was ever there in the first place one he put there himself. Just moments ago, alongside the Pathfinder’s team’s conversation, Derc condemned himself anxiously with a mutter that he ‘needs to find Kaetus before things really pick up,’ and ‘Davidson’ knows where to be when the Salarian crawls out of the slums into the light of day. </p>
<p>He is not the only one headed to the markets to find someone. </p>
<p>Reyes is sitting behind Keema’s counter, the Angaran woman absent, busy pulling her people out of the shadows for the festivities, all Angara entitled to drink and go as they please during Sloane’s events. It is as much an Outcast recruiting ploy as a means to soften the alien presence and promote the Port as it once was. Even if Sloane says such as just a hollow crutch for her benefit, Keema’s negotiations never fail to give the Angara a step further out of the sinking pit the Kett dug for them. Rerouting wealth is a priority she is constantly making efforts towards. </p>
<p>Twisting the cover onto a lock disabler, similar to the one he gave Ryder when they worked together on Vehn Terev’s shift in capture, he sets the device into standby mode, making sure the magnetic pulse is off before he glides it into a small, unremarkable black bag for pick-up later. There are several of these underneath the counter, for various agents. </p>
<p>A shadow passes over his face and he rises up, seeing Ryder in a black t-shirt and a pair of dark pants. The man sits, and Reyes lifts his toolbox and the acquisitioned parts for an omni-tool from below, an unspoken symmetry. It is easy to appear as a customer and seller, gratifyingly simple to settle into a cover amongst the moderated chaos of the market. </p>
<p>Reyes knows where Ryder has been, and that his golden rule is now out in the open, available to lay claim to a sway in biases if possible. He wonders what impression the Charlatan’s left on their Pathfinder, and if he can use it to his advantage but it’s a passing thought. </p>
<p>“Morning.” Ryder greets him once they make eye contact across the counter, the omni-tool damaged, ripped open and dark and various tools sitting between them, and Reyes asks, “How were the badlands?”</p>
<p>Ryder isn’t surprised at his agent’s awareness, and responds casually, “A little humid, but quiet. Good thing too because I would never hear the end of it if one of Liam’s bikes got caught up in something.”</p>
<p>“Insurance is not a common favor for purchases on Kadara.” Reyes lifts the omni-tool, seeing the power source punctured and exposed like a wound and undoes the band so he can access the main screen. “Although you won’t need it with me.” He glances up into Ryder’s expression which sharpens, smile angling, “Because I’m getting the best processer in Andromeda?”</p>
<p>“And power stabilizer.” He assures nonchalantly, unlatching the screen, unscrewing several tiny screws and placing them into a small holder for parts. The panel cracks further upon removal but it is to be discarded so neither man reacts, Reyes placing it in another box for the scraps unsalvageable. “I’ll leave your Initiative brand address chip intact. Wouldn’t want you missing any of those super important emails.”</p>
<p>Ryder all but rolls his eyes, hazel eyes handsomely emotive, and he says, “Axius could have stabbed a little further to the left. Same electrical jolt with a better excuse for being offline. Had my arm jerking for days afterwards.” </p>
<p>“There’s plenty waiting in storage.” Reyes lifts it with a pair of tweezers, putting it out of the way and he catches Ryder’s side eye, the man looking far a moment, “Break one, there’s thousands to replace it.”</p>
<p>“By the sound of it, I’m guessing not many of them made it here to the Port.”</p>
<p>“Unable to be modded, location driven with an Initiative assigned identification number, not very useful for an exile. Not to mention cheaply made. Most paid for it to be removed upon arrival, although it does have its perks.” Gliding the damaged power cell out of the body, he disables the cords, detaching the grid and putting it in the discards. </p>
<p>Unpackaging fresh tubes with stronger heat resistance, he nimbly twists the old ones off and slips the new ones into their places, noticing Ryder’s gaze on his hands. </p>
<p>“Expandable braiding for high charges.” He clarifies, “It’ll make your omni-blade quicker and less volatile to the cold.” Gliding the new processer into its slot, Reyes presses the button to open the mechanically locked box that holds the new power source and hooks it up, attaching the wires with the help of his tweezers. The power stabilizer fuses on top, securing itself into a slot and Ryder comments, “So the top slot is for enhancements.”</p>
<p>“Typically either boosters or stabilizers.”</p>
<p>He attaches a small red pairing to the Initiative address and presses it down into its slot again, Ryder asking, “What was that?”</p>
<p>“A little present from me to you.” </p>
<p>Ryder’s eyes shine, and he leans in, “Deliberately configured to the address chip or is that a coincidence?”</p>
<p>“Trust me, Ryder.” Reyes says lowly, snapping another chip into the second slot as they look at one another, “You’ll appreciate it.”</p>
<p>Pupils dilating at his tone, Ryder’s cunning falls away, and his hand ticks closer across the counter, “Extra charge?” </p>
<p>Reyes’ lips curve, “On the house.” He snaps a new screen into place, locking a shield barrier on, screws twisting tight with ease and purposefully takes his time sliding the onmi-tool back to its owner. Ryder takes it, touching his fingers, not pulling away for a long second, “I’ll have to play around and find out what it is.” He pulls the device closer, separating their hands and Reyes pulls back, putting his tools away.</p>
<p>The man looks appreciative already and as he puts his omni-tool back on, tightening the band in place, he stands, “It’s not the only adjustment you made, is it?” </p>
<p>Reyes looks at him as he also stands. The question lays between them. </p>
<p>Grinning, explaining, “I’ve taken it apart before too.” Ryder is all canines, and Reyes’ nerves spark, tingling beneath his skin. They look at one another, and any expected hostility or distrust has long since been disproven. </p>
<p>“Have a smoke with me, Ryder.” He offers, elongating their time together if merely by minutes. And Ryder’s eyes crinkle, pleased. </p>
<p>They find a quiet wall to people watch and assign value to the short time span of a burning cigarette. Umi is having boxes wheeled into the Outcast base, while shop tenders pull down their metal gates, unaffiliated businesses all closing for the party. Digital banners come to vibrant life, Outcast name and core values in bright words, and the docks are welcoming guests but slowing any departures so people are lounging about, squatting and talking lowly amongst themselves. Krogan heavies crunch edible rocks as they bet on a game of cards by one of the security stations, where Kaetus stands, talking to a Salarian. </p>
<p>Blood stains, chipped walls from weapons clashing, and the signs of harshening poverty for those sinking towards the bottom of the food chain are increasing, windows patched poorly, crutches obvious, eyes bitter and watchful. This is Sloane’s Port, the future smothered by reliance on past measures for control, and suffering predestined to prove point. Rivalry gangs against the Nexus just as quick to threaten violence as the Outcast leader further prove the disparity of Kadara, a brutal reminder why there are no legal trade routes here and why there shouldn’t be. Alcohol, drugs, forced complacency, nothing comes to Kadara to thrive with Sloane devouring all resource obvious and blind to possibilities for development upward. The sickening dangers of assuming the only barrier to prosperity is the Kett and not people standing among them has wormed its way into Outcast ideology to stay. Nothing left to do but rid the Port of the disease.   </p>
<p>Ryder is watching him, and Reyes smooths his brow, blowing out smoke. </p>
<p>“I have a few things to do before the fun, but I’ll meet you at the front door.” Reyes stubs out the remainder of his cigarette, and takes one last long look at Ryder with his between his fingers, smoke curling and eyelashes dark in the haze. Takes in the wall behind him, tagged with graffiti and a mellow contrast to his dark clothing, the light of fire tiny suns in hazel brown, but more so he sees how they can stare at one another with knowing gazes, and language forms behind their eyes. </p>
<p>He departs, seeing agents filtering through the crowds, faces he recognizes well, Fox, Radwan, Crux’s men and Makerix’s people, and their game of pretend, months spent sending one man at a time undercover until they had their numbers. Watching how the Outcast tracked movement, sitting in the throne room as Sloane waved orders, they slipped into jobs typical for lower level grunts and learned the security, the names of the usuals and the hours of the weakest links. They look deceivingly normal in Outcast uniform, well aware of all the little prideful ticks that would have tripped them up early on and had gotten a few undercover agents killed. </p>
<p>Radwan has an update between Derc and Kaetus, word of a meeting with their Collective contact to regroup in the safety of distance, at the sulfur lakes after the party events. The death of their rook does not go without shaking their white knight and Kaetus’ expression has considerably closed up, suspicion tightening his every movement, like he has the instinct something is closing in, breathing the same air. Radwan watches from a guard post in the vicinity, looming like the grim reaper. Sloane is busy in her throne room, leaving her right hand man to the lists of mandatory action, guest list checking, completely in the open, vulnerable, although she doesn’t realize this. And there is nothing he can do at the moment, busy with preparations that will not be authorized to stopped. </p>
<p>Reyes drops off his small black bags in their pick-up spots, some hidden in plain view, some needing code to access wall panels and in the distraction of the growing excitement, sets up a vehicle for transport in a Collective coded transportation block. With an armored cage for the backseat, tiny windows high on the walls and a panel from the driver’s section to the back, it is an effective carrier for Adhi that come in from the badlands and for prisoners of war. When it is needed, it will be ready to pull out immediately. He places the keys in Davidson’s locker in the docks, hearing speakers roar to life to announce officially festivities have started and alcohol will finally be served again.</p>
<p>&gt;OUTCAST! JOIN OUTCAST OR BE CAST OUT! KADARA PORT, STRONG UNDER SLOANE’S REIGN!&lt;</p>
<p>A portable ring has been set up in the market’s open space now that all business has been suspended and lights boom on, red neon glaring to life in place of typical street light. Cheap shots are being passed out from the security booths, tequila and vodka, crowds pressing in as two Krogan intimidate one another from opposite corners of the fighting ring. They bellow war cries, charging the viewers, thunderous energy storming the Port. </p>
<p>Knife throwing competitions to crude resemblances of ‘enemies,’ including Collective agents, the shadow king the Charlatan and Kett are given pass for acceptable activity, men grinning devilishly with drink and weapon in hand. Smoke filters in low on the ground, coiling around everyone’s feet, a pulse of base buzzing through the metal. Aggression here is welcome, even insisted, an Outcast rebel smirking to a possible new recruit, “Get yourself into our uniform and this is your everyday. No more cowering from every shadow like the Nexus.” </p>
<p>Violence is being offered as power, and in this universe with its odds, there are many who will take blood on their hands for a step above the pits of hell. Drown in the blood or dirty yourself in it, either way the chaos doesn’t care if you’ve sinned only if you’re too weak to claw your way out of bad circumstance. </p>
<p>There are guards by the Outcast base entrance, regulation standing that only Angara or specifically indicated persons are allowed in for the finer drinks and a chance to meet their warlord. The exclusive party has been ongoing for hours now, letting Angara drink first and confirming official head count. Outcast modded guns displays have taken over some of the market stalls, target practice instilling a sense of elevated status on the food chain. If you have one of these guns, not even a swarm of Kett are going to be a problem. The sound of Krogan pummeling on one another echoes far, and Drack stands near the front of the crowd, beer in hand, yelling to uppercut. Reyes is sure he is not the only person from the Tempest engaging with the Port, team Pathfinder a neutral party even with their brand taking clear stance towards the life of their exiles. </p>
<p>Ryder is standing by the door, talking with one of the guards, a man with visible scarring on his face, one eye dark with sight and the other white, his tight curls a rich brown. The man has means to do harm, a baton at his hip, cuffs neatly by its side but his hands hold a datapad for the guest list and he’s only frowning at this point, his words barely audible from across the noise, “Hold up. Pathfinder or not, I don’t see your name on the list. This point forward is a private event.” </p>
<p>The other guards are looking him up and down, hawk eyed in appraisal, well aware Ryder shouldn’t have any weapon on his person, fantasy becoming their expression. There is still lingering reservation present, respect earned from the Pathfinder’s accomplishments, his status against other exiles and knowledge that even without his suit, he is not completely helpless to defend himself. They come closer though, step by step, several in their dark suits, helmets locked in place behind their backs and guns holstered for effect. The wolf pack, they test their limits, Ryder giving them each a slow consideration. He is more than a doe in the open light of the forest. </p>
<p>Reyes thinks his timing is appropriate. </p>
<p>“He’s with me.” The words disperse the tightening circle, the odds evening (if they were ever out of favor of the Pathfinder.) This may be the Outcast’s territory, but they cannot argue with their own rules being followed. “Shena.” Reyes introduces himself, validated by the clear disbelief narrowing the man’s good eye, and a guard to the side with a big toothy grin and black hair buzzed short snorts a laugh, muttering, “Either I’m as blind as Adams here, or that’s no Angara.” </p>
<p>Reyes gives him a slow side eye, and he in turn closes his expression, glower setting in. Adams checks the list, and he gives the other man and the two women by his side a revealing glance. They in turn shift on their feet, just as taken off guard. Shena is on the list with two invitations and nobody will deny Kaetus’ accuracy in his paperwork. </p>
<p>“Confirmation?” Adams grunts, clearly unhappy with being in the dark about a man with multiple identities having access to insides of their operations. He doesn’t know just who he’s letting in, just who is slipping by the ranks, or how the woman by the man with the buzz cut is a fanged red head called Fox amongst her true peers, a mole making sure her comrades do not find themselves without security before entering the lion den. </p>
<p>Reyes opens his omni-tool, and they connect, the invitation legitimate, so Adams has no choice but to check him in. But when the buzz cut steps forward to do a frisk, Reyes stops him with a raised finger, “Angaran guests are exempt from frisking.” He elaborates, and the man tears his angry gaze to Adams, demanding him not to let the rules stand for such a loophole. </p>
<p>Adams shrugs helplessly, bound by contract of policy, eliciting a curse under the man’s breath but eyes are quick to move over to Ryder who’s been watching the interaction quietly. </p>
<p>“Technically your one plus isn’t listed under Angaran race.” Adams states, the intention obvious. </p>
<p>Reyes raises a hand, giving them permission and this allows the man with a buzz cut opportunity to save face, soothe an irritated masculinity. Ryder’s eyes flash on Reyes who is standing by, but he quickly turns his attention to the directive, “Hands on the wall.”  </p>
<p>Once more he gives Reyes a blazing look, staring at him until he slowly lifts each hand and flattens his palms to the wall beside the door. The Outcast agent shuffles forward, adjusting his feet for maximum stability, and smirks, “Open that stance, Pathfinder.” His boot kicks at Ryder’s ankle lightly, and Ryder complies with a slow, exact movement. His eyes are fire on Reyes’ face, but that intensity is torn away when the man pushes Ryder’s head down, touching from the top, along his shoulders then gripping along Ryder’s waist, pressing his t-shirt around him, and cups his hips. “Not even a hidden blade? You really do follow protocol.” The man comments, meaty fingers gliding down each leg. “He’s clean.” Stepping back, the agent makes sure to put appropriate distance, but Ryder’s attention is on another Kadara dweller who is already waiting in the open doorway. </p>
<p>“Enjoy the party.” Adams says, staring at them as the door closes behind the Pathfinder and the light of the hallway settles over them, dull, yellowed, turned down for privacy. Angara are settled along the walls, kissing cigars, glasses in hand with pretty pink wines and gleaming liquors. The smoke is low in the air, dense with variety and they walk together, Ryder fixing his shirt that was forced up. </p>
<p>“Do you treat all your dates this way or am I special?” He asks, their steps aligning as they pass the various conversations leaning on walls, the guards with their guns and their casual threat to any disruption, and doors leading to the different corners of the base with red lights indicating which are locked and which are green for entry. Ryder’s many things and easily ruffled is not one of them. But Reyes likes to toe that line, as he does with all others. </p>
<p>Still clearly able to see Ryder’s body beneath large hands and the controlled fire in his gaze that speaks to his capabilities of swiftly incapacitating such an obvious nuisance but choosing not to, allowing the routine power check anyway, Reyes knows endurance is a gift by their association. They approach the throne room, noise evidence of the number of guests and Reyes says, already mapping the layout in his mind’s eye, aware of its corners, its walls but finalizing the conditions to his priorities, “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” The word is murmured to Ryder as they stand in the doorway, and how he enjoys seeing the man suppress heat in his gaze for the public. Have you forgiven the offense already, Ryder?</p>
<p>Umi has a bar set up across the room, serving drinks, some curling with pink fog, others from crystal bottles, expense nothing but a number to the event. Angara are lounging like cats in the couch pits, Aya purchased fruits in bowls at the tables for tasting and dark bread to dip in honeyed sugars, the flavor of an alternate home rich in their mouths. Umi’s bartender is walking about in a white suit for visibility amongst the guests with a tray of drinks, playing bottle girl. Her friendly gaze finds the fresh faces and she smiles, coming closer, gracefully avoiding contact with those standing in their own visible privacy, “Welcome.” The tray is offered as well as its variety, low bowl-like glasses with liquid dark as the storming sea and thin stemmed martinis delicate in color but not in alcohol content. There is wine as well, swirling and balloon glasses for brandy. “A drink on the house for all.” </p>
<p>Reyes takes a glass of brandy, lifting it to her in thanks and smells the hints of floral, mingling with the dry scent of wintery oak before he tastes Sloane’s credits. It’s rich, velvety, but mellow on the tongue. He can feel the crisp sensation of alcohol buzzing down his spine and thinks the former security director, their iron fist of a den master, whether her entire life has been altered permanently by the tragedy on the Nexus, still knows a good bottle. Some things never change. </p>
<p>Satisfied by her service, the bottle girl moves around them to the next guest, and, before scoping the faces, drink cupped in his palm, he observes Ryder with his own brandy, and the way the fragile glass looks against his faded scars and bare skin. Golden amber to amber, the drink is several shades lighter than the color of the man’s eyes and Reyes takes another sip, satisfaction coiling in the long finish of cool mint and oak. </p>
<p>Outcast agents stand with liquor in their blood, status and rank devices clear on their uniform, earnings made for pride and levels for looking at. Krid and Chug are at the bar, tequila in tulip glasses looking dangerously delicate to their large hands, Umi shaking a drink while holding conversation with the two Krogan. There is a man Reyes believes he recognizes leaning deeply onto the bar counter, dark hair slicked back, finger tapping discernably but someone steps into his line of vision, smiling. </p>
<p>“Vidal. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.” </p>
<p>Keema’s knowing gaze drifts between him and Ryder, her hand holding wine half finished. Expert in controlling her facials, her smile stays fluidly in place but he knows she is processing them, pinpointing the details, the same glasses in their hands and the distance between them, the emotion in Ryder’s eyes and how often he looks at the man next to him. Not an unexpected addition but he had enjoyed the concealed step he’d had.  </p>
<p>“Remember what I said about ‘fashionably late’?” He deflects, and it does gain her attention, eyes narrowing with mild amusement, “Shush.” But he certainly can’t keep her away from the Pathfinder, let alone the room’s gaze which is already glancing their way, murmurs obvious to their intent and focus. Not all of it is flattering attention, unless charged viciousness makes the heart excited. Over her shoulder the man turns his pale face and Reyes knows exactly who it is standing at the bar in Sloane’s throne room. William Spender grabs his glass, half cocked smile and words of thanks readable. </p>
<p>“Introduce me to your companion.” And oh how the word is a challenge. </p>
<p>They meet eyes, hers cunning; She knows she has him right where she wants him and he loses sight of the man in the crowd. But he is gaining the cover of the Angaran representative making contact with a high interest guest, keeping the attention off himself so he assumes his role. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder,” He says coolly, “Meet Keema Dohrgun, the Angaran representative to Sloane.” She raises her brow line ever so slightly and he finishes, “And a friend.” Her satisfaction is palpable but Ryder is as polite and conscientious of expression as he is sometimes and offers a hand, “A pleasure, Keema. Call me Ryder.” But upon second glance there is warmth in his eyes, interest shining through to be before someone who can be called a ‘friend’ by Reyes Vidal. </p>
<p>She takes his in her free hand, able to follow his thoughts, but respects the proper address, “Reyes mentioned your professionalism.”  She is not shy about looking him up and down, hand lingering, claiming her moment before the man to move mountains, “We do business together, I secured his invitations to this event. I was hoping he’d bring you, Pathfinder.” While gliding the hand free gracefully, Reyes sips his drink to prevent his glance around obvious, Keema puts it prettily to her chin, flourishing under the honesty of Ryder’s gaze, “You’re all he talks about lately. I wondered who I went through the trouble of getting a second invite for and I have to say it is not without great delight to learn it really was for you.” </p>
<p>Ryder glances to Reyes, and he says slowly, “Is that so?” </p>
<p>Keema is delighted by many things at the moment, including her ability to tease. But Reyes Vidal is as his many names, hard to pin down. </p>
<p>“Sorry to cut this short, but I need to take care of something.” He dodges out of the conversation and any explanation that might have been expected from him with the proceeding direction. His brandy isn’t finished but across the room he can see Sloane upon her throne, her drink in hand by the rim, leg up to rest her arm and her face serious to the information coming from the man murmuring into her personal space, the same man he had thought had vanished into the crowd. Gliding his glass into Ryder’s free hand, he steps closer, and Ryder murmurs, “Abandoning me already?” </p>
<p>If he moves even just a breath closer he would be able to feel Ryder’s eyelashes on his skin, and the man’s warmth from his arm radiates, “It won’t take long.” He assures lowly, just for them, “There are important players here tonight.” He reminds him, “You should mingle. Make a good impression.” </p>
<p>He can sense Ryder hardly wants for the task of political sweet talk despite it being what their promise was built upon but he reigns in any discontent that does favors only to Reyes. The day’s business allows for free movement within usually protected walls but it does nothing to satisfy even with discipline that pledges patience. “Don’t do anything to get us kicked out.” Ryder cautions, but it really warns about something else beneath, a regard for his welfare, and he says candidly, “Please.” They both know how Collective agents are being treated once revealed.</p>
<p>He would have Ryder begging in a different manner if they were entitled to such freedoms, unconcerned about anyone being able to corner him, but he’ll gladly offer the fantasy in place of validating such worry, “I won’t ruin your fun.” The reassurance is coupled with an easy smile as he backs out, “Promise.” And he can see though Ryder believes him, a similar expression is showing as when Reyes brushed off the dangers of Zia’s ambush and follows him with his eyes as he steps back out of the throne room, becoming another shadowed figure in the hollowed lights, invisible in the moment.</p>
<p>Immediately he pulls out his earpiece and puts it in, turning it on and checks Collective logs, flipping through intel spoken when written word is too risky to leave floating as a paper trail but still spoken in code when appropriate. </p>
<p>&gt;Johnson is in position on the docks-&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Davidson has security clearance for security booth number four-&lt; </p>
<p>&gt;Nexus Assistant Director of Colonial Affairs is an official guest to Sloane’s party. William Spender’s alias can be found in the guest list logs.&lt;</p>
<p>He pulls up the file code for the audio and sees it true. The man is an opportunistic ladder climber, and certainly if he is willing to sit amongst exiles while he keeps his cushy flat high in the security of the Nexus there is reason for his presence, something to gain over the protection of distance from those he’s stepped over to rise higher. Sloane’s invitation speaks to her own inclinations and even to reason for the date. He puts in an order for someone to get in close enough to hear any detail worthy of mapping the playing board and checks his contact with Radwan. </p>
<p>&gt;All packages have been picked up. We’re in the green.&lt;</p>
<p>He glides down the corridors, hands free thanks to Ryder and waits for the feedback. An agent finally tunes in and Sloane’s voice comes in through the sound of the party. </p>
<p>“You’ve done plenty of flattering for someone who hasn’t spent hardly a week’s time in his mandatory safe house.” </p>
<p>“Please.” Spender defends easily, not prone to responding to shame, “I’m a busy man. We’re both lucky I found the appropriate excuse to make it out to this event. Everything Addison does needs to be checked twice. I can’t be seen making regular rounds to Kadara.”</p>
<p>Sloane hums noncommittedly although it could easily be a sound of disgust. She isn’t one to cater to concepts of ‘cowardly self-preservation.’  </p>
<p>“You know resources have to come from somewhere. At this rate, your port isn’t even going to be left with scraps while the Krogan colony forces the Nexus to bend to its mighty needs. There isn’t a better time than now to put pressure, even the playing field.”</p>
<p>“The Initiative isn’t putting out the same fires as before. There’s heightened security.”</p>
<p>“Sure, sure, but they’ve put a lot of their credits to cultural establishment for the Angara. Research and outpost growth are at the forefront of their mission statement. Kandros has his hands full protecting those very outposts, he can’t see everything. They’re not expecting anything but Kett.”</p>
<p>Sloane pauses a moment, taking in this information, “You’re implying the Pathfinder won’t be a problem.” She doesn’t comment on Kandros but she likely wouldn’t.</p>
<p>“Time it just right and he’ll be on a mandatory mission. Hell, even convince him he can have that outpost that’s been talked about and send him to the badlands. Give him reason not to be on the Nexus and then what the hell can the guy do? He’ll watch like everyone else as the playing field opens up.”</p>
<p>Sloane has her personal motivations for such a gruesome assault, her own thirst for revenge that she can’t quench, even with the violence she welcomes to her Port. She wants blood money from the Nexus, injury for it stealing her dreams and killing the hopeful young soldier who wanted to prove herself properly. Hardening her people, transforming victim to vicious to fight better, there exists a future with Sloane Kelly that believes war is necessary. Fire to burn away the scars and make fresh ones. Maybe she feels safer in the ash where she died the first time. </p>
<p>“What do you gain from this? You could easily get caught in the crossfire.” Half a warning, half an interrogation, she is a bullet, straight forward, piercing and easy to understand. Hardly considerate about hiding intention, she is merely looking for reasoning and the resources. </p>
<p>“Exiles pay better. They don’t have all these regulations. Nexus command thinks just because it covered the scourge damage with fresh panels and closed up the holes in the hull suddenly they can decide everyone’s future?” Spender half laughs, a sharp noise, “Director Tann thinks he’s got himself secured at the top of this kingdom but it’s just one foundational block from falling apart. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s not the one who had to pull people from the wreckage.” </p>
<p>The man knows his history, and whether it’s all lip service for someone who watched people die suffering until the final moments, he’s in good position with her. She breathes, harsh, and says, “You don’t have to fucking remind me.” It’s a cautionary not to press on old wounds. But Sloane settles in, and says, “You’re telling me you’d rather bloody the hallways than attempt to negotiate.”</p>
<p>Spender elaborates, heedful of blatant callousness, “They’ll never give you what you want. I’m not looking for mindless slaughter, just a reorganization at the top for better success. Kesh is standing on the council and she’s got more than enough leverage to raise the Krogan’s position. Who’s on the council for you?”</p>
<p>Sloane hums slowly, considering this. Reyes can almost see her pointer finger tapping her glass in thought. “I have my own problems here in the Port.” </p>
<p>“The group of spies and the Charlatan?” He asks, clarifying, “They’ll hardly be any consequence with Outcast banners parading the Nexus.” </p>
<p>Snorting, she dismisses him, but he’s laid his seeds, one can tell from her tone, “Finish your drink, Spender. You’ll hear from me.” </p>
<p>The agent steps away before the distraction vanishes and other audios fill its space. More updates on various units, codenames confirming their positions and visuals. Reyes tests his ability to unlock highly restricted areas, leaning against a wall casually using his omni-tool, overriding the office door but making sure the red light stays a deceiving red. Slipping inside, he receives the notification of a live audio from Keema. He accepts. </p>
<p>“Curious as to where me and Vidal met?” She is saying, “The only way anyone meets Reyes Vidal- through business.” If she can’t do it in person, she doesn’t mind playing indirectly. “He’s a reliable Collective contact and brings good product to Kadara. Has, since he arrived.”</p>
<p>Ryder listens, and while Reyes uses a light on his omni-tool to look at the desk, check for datapads, he waits for Ryder’s assessment and the man remains poignantly neutral in the face of outward eyes, “Does his position in the Collective pose an issue when you work with Sloane?” </p>
<p>“I judge individuals, not groups. We will all have our alliances, mine to my people. Some are to their vices, some to their motivations. You, for example,” She says smoothly, “I like. You have done many good things for the Angara. You have given the Moshae a second chance to help her people and awoken worlds thought lost forever. I’m not sure about who you work for, but I’ve learned to keep my options open. Everything is not as cut and clean as it may seem.” She clinks his glass, “It is unlike Reyes to leave a drink unfinished for another to enjoy. He likes you.” No longer delicately playing the colleague, she is enjoying finally airing their association. </p>
<p>But Ryder’s smile is evident in the audio, and Reyes half wishes he could see it for himself, “I’ve gotten that impression.” His tone is revealing, but there is hardly a tone Reyes hasn’t heard and come to understand after all this time. He pulls forward an Outcast regulations datapad filed by Kaetus, and it has a pending request for baryte mining, one highlighting the authenticity of the Collective’s claims on Draullir’s caves, a case building about whether it’s appropriate for one faction of the Port to hold such a lopsided handle of one Kadara resource. So if he can’t go through the backside, he’ll try to force himself through the front door.  </p>
<p>“And he thinks he’s so subtle.” Keema says, entertained, knowing well the man is listening. “But don’t linger for me, please, enjoy the variety of things we have here to offer. It is not often you see so many fine liquors all in one place.” </p>
<p>“It was nice meeting you, Keema.”</p>
<p>“Until further business, Pathfinder. I have a feeling we will be getting to know each other better soon.” </p>
<p>Reyes glides the datapad back into place and finds another, one encrypted with messages from a burner account that he is sure is one of his Collective agents. He unscrambles the words, reading through the credit exchanges, the pretense that this agent is closer to the Charlatan than the very man knows possible. A deal to exchange the king of the Collective for a comfortable spot amongst other officers, glory for bringing down the shadow and a place in history with their face forever engrained. He can see in the address it has a ‘D’ and a ‘9’ in it and thinks he knows someone whose name begins with the letter. </p>
<p>There is not much to Kaetus’ desk otherwise, the Turian keeping a clean and almost impersonal work space but he does find a badge indicating his level, his Outcast authority sitting next to the toolbox and the locked weapon box. Lifting it, Reyes turns it over and sees an engrained message. </p>
<p>‘For keeping me grounded. -SK’ </p>
<p>Placing it back where he found it, Reyes glances across the other desks, moving through their filed resources, thumbing across security logs and their highest priority areas. He sees something even more interesting though when he finds a list of the alcohol purchased and imported for the event. </p>
<p>Other audios file in and out but he stops on one back in the throne room, all information outside assigned placements centering conveniently on one person. </p>
<p>“One wrong move and you’re out, Pathfinder.” Kaetus growls, tension clear. He sounds stressed, hyper aware of every guest, of every face and although he knows the Tempest leader is little threat to his safety, he doesn’t have the bandwidth for graciously accepting the unexpected. “How the hell did you even get in here?” </p>
<p>“I had an invitation.” Ryder says, miraculously unhelpful and Reyes’ lips tick up slightly as he reads and checks the storage placement for the bottle he wants. </p>
<p>Incredulous headshake basically audible, Kaetus sighs heavily, “Hope you’re the last surprise of the day…” </p>
<p>“Did something happen?” </p>
<p>There’s a moment where Kaetus must debate internally with himself. He’s shared information before with the Pathfinder, relied on the man’s skill and generosity to subdue threats to the Port and equally to his leader but this time he decides to keep to himself, reservation becoming a defining line he will be reminded he kept for the coming days, “It’s nothing. Just…” Courtesy coming through, he soothes his tone, “Keep a low profile if possible. Sloane’s already going to give me hell.” Their comradery is felt by the emotion leaking into his words and Ryder naturally agrees, not one to push others unnecessarily. </p>
<p>But this office is not his only motive so Reyes steps out, the door gliding closed behind him and, checking over his shoulder for any noticing eyes, he turns the corner and descends the stairs, hacking the cameras waiting for him at the bottom. He has an agent to find in the dark cells of the Outcast prison. There is a code locked door as entrance to the prison but no guards, not with everyone thirsty for a night of freedom and Sloane allowing the distraction. They believe there would not be many foolish enough to tiptoe around the security systems in place, the figurative laser beams ready to alert the entire base for one evening without actual bodies watching. But she has notoriously underestimated him since day one. </p>
<p>Stepping past the large metal door, he enters the long hallway, damp with cold, wet air that has not been recycled in probably weeks and the scent of blood chilled on rock. Many cells are empty, only the haunting echoes of prisoners left, blood stains, scratches on the walls, chipped floors and the presence of pain that lingers even after someone has passed. Ghosts of torture, it has a way of settling into the foundations of even buildings. </p>
<p>His footsteps are the only noise besides a faint dripping, moisture collecting on the uneven ceilings. If a cell was still once Farenth’s home, she is no longer here, another disappeared off the Port. Maybe she was banished, if lucky, but he thinks something more permanent has happened to her. A woman is lying on a cot facing the wall, feet tucked under one another and small but solid stature curled inward to keep warm. </p>
<p>“Lalaine?” </p>
<p>She jerks up, dark black hair fanning about her face as she whirls on him. Immediately she can tell he is not Outcast and hope makes her eyes intense. Swallowing, moving as if he could be merely a hallucination in her desperation, she puts her feet the ground, bruises still fresh on her mouth and by her temple. </p>
<p>“Collective?” She tests, standing. </p>
<p>“You’ve done everyone a service protecting our intel.” He gives her the respect she deserves not looking at her fingers that are a paled, lumpy pink without fingernails and the coddled arm she presses to her chest and instead makes direct eye contact, “The Collective has come to your aid.”</p>
<p>Relief breathes out of her, shaky but fierce and she nods once, jerking. Hunger has taken the shape from her cheeks, the color from her skin but she is not defeated. Using the slot for meal trays he passes her a tool to demagnetize the door and an omni-tool to help deflect detection. </p>
<p>“When you think the time is right.” He says and she grabs them quickly, and asks before he walks away, “Did the Charlatan send you?” </p>
<p>Reyes looks at her over his shoulder and says, “What do you think?”</p>
<p>Honor gleams back and she swiftly hides her coveted tools, hope transformed to action and attention to detail. Allowing the security cameras off their loop once he crests the stairs, Reyes sees the logs have filed a live audio with quite a few listeners. </p>
<p>&gt;Pathfinder and Sloane have made contact at Outcast party.&lt;</p>
<p>Comments ping down the log. </p>
<p>&gt;How’d he get an invite?&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Keema graciously allowed him in by Angaran generosity I heard.&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Who says he isn’t there to rip apart the Outcast base like he did with the Flophouse?&lt;</p>
<p>&gt;Unarmed? Even for the Pathfinder that’d be a suicide mission.&lt;</p>
<p>Reyes tunes in, checking the numbering on the doors for the storage room he wants. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder.” Sloane sneers, “Where’s your uniform? Is this how you greet an official ranking officer at a party I don’t remember inviting you to?” </p>
<p>“I didn’t know you still cared about Initiative rank.”</p>
<p>“It’s the procedure I respect. But I suppose you would be trying not to stand out among the very exiles you’ve killed elsewhere.” She pauses a moment, possibly giving him another up and down, “Kaetus needs to vet the guest lists more thoroughly next time, keep the dogs outside. Where they belong.” </p>
<p>Ryder hears the hint and asks, “Would you like me to leave?” He has every intention of honoring his request to Reyes himself, discipline intact despite the alcohol probably buzzing beneath the surface. </p>
<p>“No,” She says slowly, thinking, “That would cause too much commotion. You’ve kept your word even with that ugly leash and Kadara is always looking for further benefits. Enjoy Kadara’s hospitality while you still have it. Unless you have better things to offer me. I’m always looking to improve our situation.”</p>
<p>“Are you implying what I think you are?”</p>
<p>“It’s very possible. Let’s talk after the party. Wear that nice white outfit the Initiative is so proud of and we’ll see what kind of mood it puts me in.” It could be the drink talking or the venom settled in her veins thinking she will outmaneuver entire militaries and their star soldier no matter if she takes Spender’s offer or not but her grin sounds elevated, thrill as clear as anyone’s buzz at this point in the festivities. Nothing settles the stomach more than knowing a next meal is secured. </p>
<p>Reyes finds the storage unit, and without needing to unlock the door, he steps inside, the lights flicking on with his movement. Boxes are stacked ceiling high, some in the corners out of the way, but many are Umi’s stock and labeled as such. Not the serial numbers he’s looking for and he begins glancing up and down the various cargo bins. His omni-tool lights up, Ryder’s name reading across the screen for a call. Just another moment and he’ll have his hands on something worthy of improving both their evenings. </p>
<p>Moving around another set of cargo bins, he sees importation regulates the serial number and he curses mildly, “Damn it, why can’t the serial numbers be in the same spot?” Bending down, he glances across the bottom labels, and the door glides open someone stepping in. </p>
<p>“Take the night off,” A familiar voice says, and Reyes jerks up, caught off guard and sees Ryder leaning on the doorframe, arms folded, “Come out for a drink.” Exasperation tinting his tone, a rare irritation is showing in his eyes and while he manages the rest of his expression, his jaw is tight, “Should have known you were up to something else.” The frustration is not completely with him but it does cause him to quickly stand, and begin, “Ryder, it’s not what it looks like.” He knows the excuse has flown out of his mouth, an unusually thoughtless protest for action he has no qualms admitting he’s responsible for but the ease and swiftness in which Ryder found him left him quick to typical objection mind rushing through the reasons why the Pathfinder has the tracking skills fit for an assassin. </p>
<p>Walking in further, Ryder raises one eyebrow, “So you didn’t use me as a distraction to go through Sloane’s stuff?” He asks clearly, question proof rolling with so many punches that could have been easily avoided was not high on his list of things of priorities while on Kadara. A place where he can step out of the spotlight, here he was a beacon for attention and plenty of it negative. </p>
<p>Knowing well it reflects poorly, Reyes relents, admitting the Pathfinder <em>is</em> a glorious distraction, “Okay, yes, but it’s for both our benefit, I promise-“</p>
<p>“You’ve been making a lot of promises.” Ryder returns hotly, and Reyes sees his nose crinkling with an expression he is no longer attempting to hide. But the door is being opened and it cuts their argument short, Reyes hissing, “Shit. Someone’s coming. We need a distraction.”</p>
<p>Ryder lunges forward and kisses him fully on the mouth, and he finally feels those eyelashes on his skin, bathed in the heat that vibrantly reverberates off the man. Taking hold of his hips and whirling him around so he is not so clearly visible from the now opened door, Reyes has little issue kissing Ryder breathless to prevent suspicion. Footsteps hesitate behind them but step inside hurriedly. Back pressed along the hard stack of crates, Ryder’s hands glide up Reyes’ sides, fingers curling like they want to leave lines, press marks right through his suit. With how easily the man’s mouth opens and how his hand is not pushed away when it roams up a thigh, Reyes notes the welling frustration may have everything to do with him but not entirely because he has been a poor host. </p>
<p>There has been an anticipation for release provided by himself, pent up energy acutely frustrating <em>because</em> they are jumping hoops when he wants their time. That he is here, can see what he wants and still must wait..</p>
<p>The person behind them grabs up several bottles, clinking, and mumbles a quick and rushed apology before they stride out, simply a grunt sent to collect more liquor. The door slides closed and Reyes gently pulls back, looking at Ryder’s blown pupils and reddened lips and he says softly, “I think we’re in the clear.” It almost melts in Ryder’s facials and he doesn’t move yet, entranced by the development, by getting exactly what he was so wanting for just moments ago.  </p>
<p>Finally glancing back down to Reyes’ mouth tellingly, he offers, “Maybe another kiss?” Ryder then breathes in, “Just to be sure.” He has more of his wit and the humor brings a genuine laugh out of Reyes, who leans ever so close, their lips an intention away, and says, “Now you’re just teasing me.” </p>
<p>The air smooths around them and Ryder’s eyes gleam, and they laugh, slowly pulling away, allowing Reyes opportunity to begin searching again. </p>
<p>Leaning on a crate, watching the door, Ryder folds his arms casually this time and says, “So what’s this all about?” </p>
<p>Reyes is two crates up, nimbly pushing smaller more expensive cargo out of the way, reading numbers with a swift eye. Moving a heavy clinking metal bin, he sees a wooden box, small, vintage looking and carrying only one thing. It was expertly hidden but not protected enough to keep it safe. “Finally.” He says, and pulls it down, “Here it is.” He passes the box to Ryder and steps down, using a small lock burner to melt the metal from the lock. </p>
<p>“Whiskey?” Ryder looks at the stunning dark bottle, clear for the glass but dark with the art of its creation. The lid is black, name written cleanly down the side and Reyes corrects, “The only bottle of Mount Milgrom in Andromeda. Triple distilled and 645 years old.” He slowly pulls it out of its slot, preciously holding it, gliding it into the crook of his arm to pat it like an old friend come home, “This isn’t whiskey.” His eyes flash up to Ryder’s, “It’s treasure.” In the light of the sunset he is going to drink to, it will be the exact color of Ryder’s eyes.  </p>
<p>Closing the box, Ryder sets it off to the side, saying pointedly, “I hope you’re planning on sharing.”</p>
<p>His turn to tease, he chuckles, “We’ll see.” But in the doorway, bottle in his possession, he offers Ryder the escape, ready to take advantage of the unreliable nature of intoxicated minds to take his prize and the whiskey as well, vaguely remembering a time when extending a hand to the Pathfinder was merely a thought, an idea to persuade his desires possible. “Let’s get out of here.” </p>
<p>Ryder doesn’t need to be told twice. </p>
<p>The ledge breathes air fresh, satisfying after the dull corridors of smoke-filled secrets and small flames where eyes are always pressing hotly for intelligence provided just through diligence. Intoxication dulled many avenues of gossip but there is always someone more sober, someone more determined. Ryder stands looking across the expanse, the rooftops of age-old buildings patched with fresh work, of narrow side streets with culture buried in their details. There is the Outcast base looming, banners waving madly against the orange and red sky, light beams from the market below gleaming against dark metal and dirty walls. Noise can almost reach them but for the most part, they are alone and free from observation. Just over the tall angles of Sloane’s claim, there is the rolling arching even violently protruding hills of the badlands and the resources of Kadara.</p>
<p>“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Reyes comments, cracking open the bottle with a flick of his wrist, “I sometimes forget.” He lies, knowing well he often looks upon this dangerous and toothy landscape, examined its natural violence and thought he could harness it in time and never forgotten, not even a moment what he could build amongst the arching knives that they call mountains on Kadara. </p>
<p>Ryder sits next to him, their legs dangling off the edge, and he turns to Reyes when the man asks, “Is Andromeda everything you hoped it would be?” The first taste is elegant, no biting fire to the subtle complexity of stages fit for a bottle of its age. He can tell the buzz is worth his sacrificed brandy, precious woods creating a warmth nostalgic to the soothing serenity it promises in easy time. </p>
<p>As he passes the bottle, it gleams in the falling sun rays, shining as a gem would, coming to life in vibrance just as Ryder’s gaze does when emotions hit. The man takes the bottle, holding it, examining the long-gone presence of hard work left for them to cherish in the moment, and caresses it with his thumbs, touching their brand, “It’s been more than I ever thought it would be.” He answers honestly, and takes a swallow, head angled back where Reyes sees a kiss mark half faded from their last privacy. </p>
<p>He passes the bottle back and settles his hand to the cold surface of concrete. The drink leaves a calm pleasant weight to the blood and they watch the sun, digesting this world amongst the many of their new universe. </p>
<p>An unfamiliar peace settles between them, something meant for lovers safe from the world, not for a ledge just above the underworld still plagued by war and cursed by its own people. There is patience here, time for the small details to be noticed, appreciated. A gentle, careful touch of their fingers, like two star crossed people who have never known the other’s skin until now meet on the concrete. They stay, indulging in one another’s presence and alcohol, fingers curling over one another’s ever so slightly.</p>
<p>“What about you?” Ryder finally asks.</p>
<p>The mood cools, a wave of decisions running past Reyes. Make up a pretty memory to indulge a nostalgic, safe space? Tell him of a hardship to explain his current lifestyle and earn sympathy? Avoid the request entirely? Each detail comes to life, sharp, unsafe. All this time, he’s been drinking Ryder like their whiskey and now he’s a glass too far, forgetting where he is, becoming emotions, needs, just a man. He smiles, it somehow coming forth smoothly, “What about me?” The instinct to evade overrides all other options; his mind is in no place to be providing fantasies now, caught up in touch, despite himself. </p>
<p>“Why did you come here?” He clarifies, looking at him, touching him with developed familiarity. </p>
<p>Memories float up like on waves, sunsets bleeding onto crystal waters and a childhood of sand still on his ankles, shoes in hand, a voice from a small house calling a nickname he’s left behind and the beckoning in the air from rich stews, spiced and hot. Quenching thirst with water enriched by cucumber from aged hands and compliments of his charm gifted by fruit ripe, blessed with chili powder and lime that congratulate him for his clever thoughts and bright future. An endless horizon touching sky to remind a young heart of possibilities when the small walls of home feel suffocating and private tears of a caretaker bleed him. A time when he practiced touchdowns on carriers, the careful drift of the ocean rocking him to sleep where he dreamt of innocence in crimson sweet watermelons and the laughter of long lost friends. The ocean a reminder of connection and distance. A new place where the ocean is gone and the little boy who used to stand and watch the boats come in has been left on shore. </p>
<p>He thinks of the many men he’s stood in place as, of the years of changing identities, all now vanished forever in the sacrifices made to grasp the next day. Names that no longer have a person attached to them, mysteries if ever uncovered and the final threads reminding him of places he’s been, even called familiar. Victories not his own except in his intricate knowledge and gained intelligences and the claim of Andromeda to make history, fresh opportunities not determined by already set tracks. </p>
<p>He drinks, feels the waves, and says, “To be someone.” The distance calls him, like it did when he was young, where he can carve his truth, make proof a man called Reyes Vidal has stood here and has meant something. </p>
<p>Ryder’s fingers curl around his, draws his attention, and he promises, “You’re someone to me.” A place to come home, if he were to vanish tomorrow, there would be grief, and, lowering the whiskey to the concrete for better access, he murmurs into Ryder’s lips, “I’m starting to think that kiss was more than just a distraction.” </p>
<p>And Ryder snorts a small pretty laugh against his mouth, “You know damn well..” He mutters, and below the purpling sky, strong stars peeking through and shimmying, they kiss, and find resolution that if they both fall to their labels, they’ll remember the man beneath it for each other.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Shadow and Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A challenge from the Charlatan is accepted, at a cost.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the support! </p>
<p>WARNINGS FOR THE CHAPTER: There is a scene of torture for interrogation so if that makes you uncomfortable, please avoid the scene with Batus and Crux. Otherwise just language!</p>
<p>I'm looking forward to exploring the second half of the game through this lens and hope to do the missions moving forward justice!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Breathing, heavy, a slow, tender groan and Ryder’s weight balanced, distributed but partially in his lap. His abs are taut, back arched, legs spread around Reyes’ figure resting back against the wall and pillows and Ryder’s arms are holding him up from behind. He’s hard, arousal as thick as their blood, and he throws his head back when he finally sinks down full, pressed against Reyes open thighs and full of their connection. There’s a flush on his chest, faint on his neck and cheeks, every muscle working for their satisfaction, and his eyes flutter closed, entranced by pleasure deep and penetrating. </p>
<p>Appreciative hands follow down Ryder’s stomach, along the hard body of a man who needs to test limits and win, and squeezes his erection, jumping electricity through his insides and giving the delight of pressure for both of them. Leaning over the side of the bed, he grabs the whiskey bottle he acquired from the party off the floor and pops his hips up, giving his lover the signal and Ryder sucks in air, and puts strength in his neck so he can begin moving. </p>
<p>Reyes drinks, the flavor now one coursing through his entirety, and watches over the bottle as Ryder rises and sinks, lips parting in concentration and building gratification. Within minutes, buzz a rekindled fire, Reyes lowers the bottle, attention tightening to the man sitting on his cock, fisting his own in irresistible desire, angled on one arm to hold his weight. </p>
<p>With ease, he replaces Ryder’s hand, sliding into its place around Ryder’s twitching, thankful erection, and lets the man even out his weight again onto both arms. Rotating his wrist, he first draws a line up the sensitive backside, and narrows Ryder’s concentration all into one place, whiskey eyes hot on his hand and his body. Ryder bites a lip, stomach muscles squeezing but he doesn’t stop moving, so finger by finger Reyes coils his hot hand back around him and makes the man groan, grateful. </p>
<p>They find rhythm, Ryder’s chest sprinkled with kiss marks from their first position and Reyes with a few himself still tingling from teeth that pressed just right. Like the clenching of a fist, his insides begin to seize, dense with the heat and reality of their position. Fire exploding up his organs, he grabs the back of Ryder’s neck and yanks him forward for a crushing kiss, thumbing the man with an orgasm tearing exactness to his preference. Ryder presses a quick hand to the wall behind Reyes’ head, several hot streams lining his chest, even touching his collarbone. Knowing there is a crest, a brief peak that leaves the man pliant but not quite oversensitive, Reyes uses momentum to roll Ryder onto his back, one hand grasping a thigh for angle and sweeps his hair out of his face. Ryder gasps, quickly fisting bed sheets, back arching, still a lingering hardness speaking volumes to the man above him. </p>
<p>“You look just as good on bottom as you do on top, Ryder.” Reyes says and if Ryder’s gaze could speak to any more honest attraction, his eyes would be red with it. He grits his teeth momentarily, Reyes’ length reaching far, but it is not in pain but instead the tingling of nerves residually sparking, a low burning flame that they have an inkling may never be fully satisfied. </p>
<p>“Right there..!” Ryder breathes, and Reyes half smirks, straightening up, pressing the spot and once more cards his fingers up through jet black hair, “Here?” </p>
<p>“God..!” Ryder arches even further, knuckles going white, and Reyes feels the shudder deeply, cresting him, so he presses down on his hands, finishing himself with a deepness that has Ryder’s legs wrapping around him for. They breathe with one another, Ryder releasing the sheets almost in slow motion. </p>
<p>And when they finally make eye contact again, Ryder suddenly grins, “One more round?”</p>
<p>Resting in the bed next to Ryder sleeping, Reyes comes to a realization. He is not, has not been, objective with the Pathfinder. While defeating the Roekaar, providing the glory to both the Initiative and the Collective was a means to an end, and using the title has only kept its expanding benefits even with the growing complications, he has stopped seeing the man as an attachment to the position and instead reversed their places. His smoke curls, and he blows out a tight stream. Handsomely messy hair and peace lay beside him, unaware, but he doesn’t doubt that while he has touched a hero, he has found a man who holds him favorably and looks upon him with warm, knowing eyes. </p>
<p>Comfort draws him closer to sleep but messages are waiting for him, his console blinking. He slips out of bed, pulls on a pair of underwear and puts the cigarette out in an ash tray at his desk. A message from Knight is the first he checks. She is asking to see him, her plans for visiting the Nexus on hold with her son’s worsened condition. Their device for capturing AIs is now in its final stages and she wants to present the details, show her Collective agent how to use it for their contract. He agrees to meet and moves onto the next message from Lachlan who is on the Nexus with fresh updates to Ho-Sook’s provided blue prints. She has tall, angled handwriting in all capitals, marking the security systems, the guard placements and codes necessary for entrance. The Angaran cultural center is up and running, and while outwardly the Nexus appears to be blooming finally, underneath there is still the yawning scars from the tragedy ready for the floor to sink at vulnerable spots and devour helpless people. </p>
<p>She has picked up the medical supplies, safely stored them on her ship and located the Pathfinder’s chambers, a place protected by high level routine checks mechanically and through men on duty. There are labeled terrorists in open facing cells in Kandros’ department, one of them known for causing deliberate malfunction to the electrical system in an attempt to sabotage the Operations unit. He is a grim-faced man sitting with his hands clasped tightly between his knees but it is not remorse hanging his head but the disgust of failure. His sunken eyes follow each soldier who walks past, a buzzard looking for weakness. Beside him is a Turian imprisoned for accusations of killing another officer, Nilken Rensus, who claims a brutal Kett attack left everyone vulnerable to the capture of death and he himself should not be held responsible for making it back alive after an ambush. </p>
<p>Disillusionment is not something easy to outrun, no matter how well the Pathfinder sells hope and even though food and security is not as scarce as it once was, there are still critical blocks missing for the foundation of a society to stand upon. Lachlan sends him acquired data from the hydroponics department, requests for better nutrients and more field exposure at outposts ready for farming. Security detail is being revamped, but inner conflict is forcing the process through figurative paperwork processing and reprocessing, much like a report being rejected from top down over and over for improper wording. She is heading home, clearing the gates as she writes her message and will send another update when she is landing. </p>
<p>Rob has pictures, a little shaky, likely from nerves, but considering his wife is still sleeping, he has appropriate access to the amount of people in stasis, and can give an accurate estimate. There are rows upon rows of passive faces, people ready to build, families ready to thrive, children not yet safe to wander Nexus halls and the hard workers that stimulate situations towards growth. Jobs are necessary, but coupled with New Tuchanka’s outpost, and the momentum she has, Reyes thinks he can provide such opportunities if he can seize power. </p>
<p>He has audios of whispered words at local bars, and murmured worries from family members awake standing by their loved one’s stasis pods pulling their fingers in grief. </p>
<p>
  <em>”The last round of stasis awakenings left people without hardly enough credits to buy food for themselves! Where’re the jobs we were promised? Is it too much to ask for even the basics?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You’ll be lucky they won’t want to double check your background and interrogate your ‘real intentions.’ With all the trials against people, I guess I should really call them criminals now, trying for a second tragedy- you know the last guy was just an electrician? Kind of makes you want to glance over your shoulder twice before going anywhere alone.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“How long until we get permanent residence? I’ve been in three temporary housing bunks in just as many weeks.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Tell that to Addison. Maybe she’ll put you out on a guard post and you’ll get a permanent fold-out chair in a security tower.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Ha! Very funny. You know Kandros isn’t going to let just anyone take over security anymore. Not after the fallout with Nilken. All the training in the universe, and a stray bullet will still kill ya.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Don’t cry. They told us there are no last effects staying in the stasis pod past the scheduled date..”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“But who knows when we’ll see each other again? What if it’s years? What if I’m old by then?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Is this the fear the Angara have lived with or did we bring it with us? I thought we were going to recover from the Scourge tragedy..”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I guess nothing is as simple as we wish it was.”</em>
</p>
<p>Without needs being met, there is little room for analysis of anything more than distribution of resources and comfort but once those needs are settled, what will the people think of their surroundings? They trust the basics, but when they have the headspace, will the details begin to catch their gazes now that they know this is not the classic pioneer mission it was presented as? Will they begin to see a different picture? </p>
<p>Only time will tell. </p>
<p>It is late, darkness heavy outside, but the Port is not yet asleep, still raging forward towards daylight to use every moment of freedom with no strings attached. Sloane will not make the people pay for their enjoyment, and especially not her loyal dogs which have just as many wolves mixed in now.</p>
<p>Radwan informs Reyes Kaetus will be leaving for the badlands at daybreak to assume his place at a secret meeting. They will not be able to follow, the sulfur lakes too exposed for spies to get close and too flat not to be heard approaching. It is a place open to nature but will leave a telling sign on any representative. There is no escape from the traces of sulfur that will linger on their clothing when they return and so the Charlatan passes the information to Crux who will have Lynx set up a scanning procedure for any and all agents coming and going from the base disguised as ‘routine.’ </p>
<p>Morning is not far to follow though, between monitoring contact through private email and confirming the preparations to halt the mole, and soon Ryder is shifting in the blankets, stirring. Pale day streams into the room from the slender window, onto the mess of their clothing and the leftovers of the whiskey, now closed and just out of danger of feet. The air hangs with aged smoke and their time together, and Reyes slowly turns in his chair, having pulled on a fresh shirt and examines the man in his bed blinking away sleep. </p>
<p>While he is coming out of his dreams, still distant from the world and responsibilities, Kaetus is plotting another attempt to ambush the Charlatan on his own turf and begging to find where the line will be drawn between them. Does the shadow king show mercy to men doing things out of love? </p>
<p>Ryder rises, runs a hand through messy hair and yawns, “Long night?” He reaches down and grabs a black shirt off the ground, smelling it and notices it’s not his with dark pupils. Reyes notices as well. He lays it down on the bed and grabs another. </p>
<p>“Work doesn’t sleep.” Reyes says, clicking the monitor off and stands, “Coffee before you go?”</p>
<p>Lips quirking ever so slightly, Ryder yanks on the shirt, “You’ve got creamer?”</p>
<p>“I did get my hands on some powder.” Reyes tosses the container towards Ryder who catches it with ease and says with a pretty surprise, “This is a good brand.”</p>
<p>He opens a wall panel where the coffee maker is stored, a simple instant one, but a commodity all the same. Two cups from an upper panel later, Ryder is dressed, sipping his steaming golden brown and checking emails on his omni-tool. Brow serious, he focuses, and they exist in the same space, the time together not a place for performance, walls for other gazes. This might be the exact Ryder who reads his logs in the space of his own room, and when he slowly sighs, revealing himself, Reyes knows it true. </p>
<p>“You were right.” He says, closing his omni-tool, coffee half-drunk but now cooler, “Work never takes a night off.” Standing, he finishes the cup with one easy motion then he suddenly smiles and says, “That processor you gave me is the fastest thing I’ve used yet.”</p>
<p>“Worth the price?” Reyes takes the cup from him, sitting in his chair. </p>
<p>“Worth every credit.” Ryder pulls on his shoes, and in the doorway, before he opens it to the outside world calling him, he looks at Reyes who raises his brows ever so slightly behind his own mug in fond question. </p>
<p>“Did I leave my jacket here?” He asks and Reyes presses a button on a slender remote on his desk, a different wall panel opening and revealing clothes hanging cleanly in a line. A dark suit, a pilot uniform, a black insulated coat and Ryder’s bright white Pathfinder jacket. Gently, Ryder touches its sleeve, the panel opening just over the bed, which could be pushed into the slot in the wall for easier access and looks across Reyes’ other pieces. </p>
<p>“Thanks.” He says after a moment and pulls it down to fold it over his arm, “I thought they were going to have to commission me a new one and Cora’s been saying we didn’t have the funds for everyone to get a third uniform.”</p>
<p>“A third?” Reyes echoes lowering his mug. </p>
<p>Ryder laughs, and explains, “We’ve had more than a few accidents on the Tempest. Last one was Gil and some engine fuel. He didn’t mean to, so he says.”</p>
<p>Checking the pockets, Ryder dips his fingers into the front and the sides and then an inner pocket and says, “Ah. Here.” He passes a small bag, sealed tight and red with a clear label, ‘strawberries.’ </p>
<p>Reyes reaches out, takes it, as Ryder says, “Those seedlings I was telling you about. The Nexus is having trouble keeping their crop and these are several tries back so I got my hands on a couple.” </p>
<p>When Reyes lifts his gaze, Ryder elaborates, “Had lots of time to wait on Elaaden.” He steps back, opens the door and lifts the jacket slightly, “Thanks again.” The door closes and Reyes turns slowly in his chair back towards his monitor and kisses the packet gently. </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Knight’s gloveless hands pass him a cube, black, lined with power grids and she looks at him with the expectancy towards someone who is well aware of the trials that had to be overcome for such success and can be a connoisseur of their efforts. Her dark hair is in a loose, low braid, white shirt airy and rolled at the sleeves. Behind the sitting area, her people are working, talking over monitors, chuckling to small, unique inside humors crafted in long hours of togetherness. Laveria’s distinct cheerful protest drifts up into the high ceilings but her laughter clearly indicates a fond amusement in the denial. The room smells faintly of roasted herbs, meat tendered slow, the presence of life, the daily all around, and a meal cooked with care. No longer are the wall panels open to show a gutted impermanence, and all the cords that used to run through their main area have been properly given a place, the room showing more and more time- captured specimen similar to pets in pretty glass cages mirroring nature, half crafted projects waiting for available hands on acquired surfaces, jackets tossed over chairs. </p>
<p>“Can it be made smaller?” Reyes rotates it, the corners not quite sharp but the weight decent. </p>
<p>“That’s as small as it gets.” She says, flipping her braid back over her shoulder as she lifts up a device from beside her. “For it to have immediate effect after detecting the AI EM pattern it needed a power core twice the size of the initial prototype. To deactivate the implant and simultaneously begin absorbing the AI code consciousness, it will be managing several processes all at once, including the virus which is a delicate and time-oriented component.”</p>
<p>He glances across several flat but faintly red buttons on the sides with different symbols to prevent confusion, “Everything is manual.” </p>
<p>“Correct.” She confirms, lips curving, and begins flipping switches, the slender box in her hands turning on with a beep, “Except for the AI tracking aspect. That will always be automatic.” The circular screen with a dome glass over top in the middle of her device glows and begins spinning and power runs like water from a dam through the thin lines on the box. It doesn’t make any noise, discrepancy necessary and she, noticing the respect in his gaze at their attention to proper results, nothing being left to the considerations of ‘probable,’ smiles fully, “Brilliant, no? We’ve learned how to mimic EM patterns.” She flips it off and the box settles back into darkness, “It can detect the implants as well the actual interface with a decent range. The left button with the circle label is for disabling implants while the right with the rectangle is for beginning the transfer. On the bottom will be the virus. That should be the last button pressed as it corrupts all the connections the AI has formed, effectively sealing it into the box.” </p>
<p>Reyes lowers it to the table lest any semblance of greed set fire to a painstakingly crafted bridge of trust, “Does the Pathfinder need to be within range for the box to disable the implant?”</p>
<p>“In theory, for the man’s safety, the first step would be to disable the implant, cut their connections then capture the AI but when the interface shuts off, that will cut communications with the implant anyway.” She taps her lip with two fingers in fast moving thought, “But to answer your question, yes, he would need to be in range. It isn’t convenient, and I’m not saying this in any way lightly, but maybe sacrifices will have to be made on his behalf for the sake of everyone’s future. I won’t deny the value of one life, but considering the level of corruption still highly contagious throughout the Initiative, they can’t be trusted not to weaponize AI soldiers after how effective the Pathfinder has been on the field against their enemies. He is damnable walking proof of the power of an AI merged with a human.”</p>
<p>Reyes watches her expression, silent in the face of opinions easily construed as siding one way or the other, and asks, “Is there more than one box?”</p>
<p>If Knight notices his neutrality, she doesn’t comment, seemingly satisfied as usual with his consistency to listen, “We have two boxes, one for each AI. Of course, that’s the best-case scenario, to get both AIs and properly release the Pathfinder from his ball and chain without any permanent damage to his brain, but it has just as high a percentage to be the fallback if somehow the first box fails. This,” She puts the tips of her fingers to the one on the table between them, “Is your box. I wish I could send both boxes with you but if for whatever reason, the Initiative prevents the Collective, it would be best for us to take on the second attempt looking unaffiliated. I’ll be carrying the second box, for when we return to the Nexus, in case we have time to imprison the Angaran AI or if there has been failure, to properly subdue SAM, our highest priority.” </p>
<p>“And how do you transfer the AI after sealing it?”</p>
<p>“There will be a code, one that only Firefighters know. Once the mission is complete, the screen will become available to enter the numbers.” </p>
<p>He takes the box slowly, their gazes locked on one another, “What’s the Firefighters’ timeline?”</p>
<p>She seems wistful as they stand, his acceptance of their craft a promise in her eyes for justice but his departure early, “Considering Alain’s fever has yet to break, I can’t say we will be leaving anytime soon. I wanted to begin planting our securities as soon as possible, but I won’t risk travelling and the dangers of space without his health.”</p>
<p>They stand by the door, the welcoming lush red of potted flowers with long, vine like stems coiling over the rims hanging from hooks next to the front security systems. “It is probably wise for you not to return to the Port right now anyway.” He says and she looks at him with open inquisition, dark eyes floating across his unreadable facials, “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Dock security checks.” He answers, “Sloane is looking for affiliates of the Collective in order to promote Outcast dominance. You may not have any obvious signs of association for her to single your group out but better safe than sorry.”</p>
<p>She lives by this mantra and she folds her arms loosely, dark, smooth skin pretty in its contrast to her white shirt, all the exposed brown even to the layer of cloth, “Of course.” Knight murmurs, serious, “Until we meet again, Vidal. Next time stay a little longer, we are almost upon Alain’s birthday from the Milky Way, a special day, April 4th.” She watches him go from the doorway, offering a wave, the echoes of nature absorbing the silence after the doors glide closed.  </p>
<p>In the blaze of day, he walks back to his bike, packing the box away in his belongings. He has no intention of disabling SAM’s interface and will actively plan to assist sabotaging the Firefighters’ mission if necessary but until the problem because more a more present conflict, he won’t waste time analyzing possible scenarios that could lead to their success. Crux is waiting for him anyway.</p>
<p>Dorado’s been arrested. </p>
<p>Hours have passed since she failed the security check, Batus’ guards escorting her with cool assessment on both sides. They know of her deceit, the shapeshifter in their ranks, but to prove it, to persuade at her own expense admittance leaves her with a cornered but courageous daring to hold her chin high and feign ignorance at worst, and outright lie at best. </p>
<p>Crux is sitting in interrogation level one, next door through the one-way window where Dorado waits locked to her metal chair in the middle of the room with nothing but her thoughts and the single capped bulb for light. Above level one is interrogation level two, where, if necessary, the Charlatan can sit in, either provide the ill omen for the monstrosity of betrayal or make the final say for a prisoner’s fate, the swinging pendulum of hell tomorrow or hell today.  </p>
<p>Reyes doesn’t immediately head to the unit, allowing Dorado to stew in her own mistakes and prepare her defense. The further she plans a hopeful performance, the harder reality’s slap will take her off guard. He’s sure she has a last-ditch escape plan, something physical, a jab in the darkness to draw blood and give her a running chance and he doesn’t want that taking precious time away from better use of their manpower. If there are further moles, then he will simply flush them out, drown them in their own caverns and prove hostility needs strong lungs. Batus has called in all of the representative’s people, her entire unit in questioning. Even just a sliver of self-preservation can trample dignity, loyalty to words spoken in the safety of mere intention and give critical weight to a tipping scale. His monitors glow awake and Reyes confirms the acquisition logs for the weapons chamber and his warehouse. Dorado has checked out several EMPs, three to be exact, and a trigger that has a high probability of having been transformed for secrecy. </p>
<p>Other news passes across his screen, including up to date recon about the Pathfinder team. Drack, while appearing to have been only participating in Sloane’s party as a guest ready to enjoy the spoils, spotted William Spender on the docks leaving with VIP level authorization. He has good intel that Aroane is on Elaaden, sipping cooled imported sparkling wine from Aya at The Paradise smugly and wallet looking figuratively thicker. Every contact knows Spender was on good terms with Aroane, the talk starting with rumors from the very beginning that for the right price, Aroane will shoot you right through and walk over your body with little remorse unless blood gets on his shoes. He’ll transport anything, no matter the size but if someone pays higher, then expect the product not to arrive even with contract. The transporter has been mostly in space, driving large mining samples back and forth, selling through the black market and looking for good credit, but with the new outpost allowing human and Nexus alike into the colony, it does arouse suspicion, if just at the basic levels. Even if they are mutually exclusive events, Spender’s plans for a strike against the Nexus, and Aroane circling the colony and outpost, the reality still stands that each has a motive and the transporter has already been paid by the cost of his bottle. </p>
<p>Ryder is placing a call to the Nexus, a detail flashing on Reyes’ omni-tool by connection to the Pathfinder’s. He turns the sound on and Addison’s voice comes through, “A Pathfinder shouldn’t be wasting time on a witch hunt. Yes, Spender has his run-ins with HR, there <em>are</em> complaints about his personal stance and his attitude towards Krogans, but we can’t afford to lose any more people due to circumstantial suspicions.” </p>
<p>Ryder holds his ground, “We have a sighting of Spender on Kadara. Circumstantial is leaning towards turning a blind eye.” </p>
<p>“He <em>is</em> is Assistant Director of Colonial Affairs. Kadara is the final habitable world that doesn’t have official ties to the Nexus and is a necessary factor to be assessed.”</p>
<p>“And that needs Spender’s personal attention?” </p>
<p>“What are you implying, Pathfinder? There should be zero contact with the exiles? Your father had a more nuanced opinion on how to handle those with a record.”</p>
<p>The sting is apparent, and Ryder’s silence is heavy even in the call. He finally responds, “A little below the belt, Director. That’s hardly appropriate or accurate.”</p>
<p>Even Addison with her logical coolness has her missteps, a tongue with a blade, harshness bred out of complete shock and a life rebuilt when thought crumbled. She is Sloane’s mirror in light; their carried scars indicative in a change of voice, the way they rest at night, their gazes but she is still in uniform, and has pride undeterred in her title which continues to hold meaning to her. Even just the idea of further corruption running right under her nose flairs defensiveness, “It isn’t in your job description to do background checks on members of Nexus Operations and certainly not to promote restaffing.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been responsible for plenty of things outside of the official ‘job description’ of Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t want to budge but can’t argue with the validity of Ryder’s point. “I don’t have the people, Ryder. Spender’s work is efficient and his paperwork is always on time.”</p>
<p>“What does Kesh think of him?”</p>
<p>“Don’t bring her into this.” The sharpening of her tone indicates the level of complaint goes further than simple workplace disgruntlement and disagreement, “She isn’t colonial affairs and doesn’t have the time or means to an opinion on every staff equal to me in my department.” </p>
<p>“Time management is hardly a good justification if he is actively working against the Nexus.”</p>
<p>“Until you have proof, I’m not moving forward with the claims against Spender. You should know how accusations can harm a man’s reputation for nothing better than fear.” Addison softens and she says, “I’m not trying to compare you to Alec, I’m merely.. appreciating what once was. He too had plenty of allegations that worked against him despite the credit he deserved.” Guilt is possibly playing a role here, Addison having to assume control when the very basics of the Nexus had been gutted and she watched on as things tumbled into the fire, including good people and dreams of a mission turned massacre. Does she want to try for a second time believing everyone’s duality of good can outweigh their ‘evil’ after tossing Sloane beneath the wheels of the ever-turning drive for balance? Or does Spender help her numbers look good and that satisfies ‘by the book Addison’ who needs those results to lay her head to her pillow? </p>
<p>If anyone knows the effects of bad publicity, the power of opinion against someone, it is the son of Alec Ryder but the man is a figurehead and the public has claim to him in their own ways, no matter his family’s position. “This might become another fire to put out, Addison.”</p>
<p>“It is appropriate then that we have you as a fire extinguisher, isn’t it?” Her biting humor is eerily similar to a certain warlord, but she says, “I’m defending not arresting and banishing further people. If proof comes to light, know that I’ll have your back. I have a meeting starting in a couple minutes. We expect you back on the Nexus as soon as yesterday, Pathfinder.” And the line cuts. </p>
<p>Reyes types a quick acknowledgment to Radwan who is in position inside the Outcast base, standing by and looks at Batus’ reports, which signal innocence down the line of Dorado’s agents except for one, a Salarian who, well aware of the methods of acquiring knowledge in Draullir Caves, has confessed to helping her representative fashion the EMP devices to the trigger and install it into the sole of her boot. She was quick to insist she knew not what the purpose was to the request and Batus believes her. That leaves their mastermind. </p>
<p>Dorado wants the thrill of collapsing the growing Collective pyramid herself and while it is the transformed version of Andromeda purpose, a Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, Reyes does admire the tenacious grip she has to her claim on history. Sadly, the Charlatan thinks she and her name will not be leaving Draullir again despite her efforts. </p>
<p>Security agents sweep the base, and find two of the three EMP devices. One was beside the doors to the vehicle entrance and the other was at the base of the main building where Crux and Lynx’s offices are but Reyes assumes the third was placed out in the badlands in the range of the sulfur lakes in case ambush threatened exposing them. The hours have given way to Dorado’s impatience, the hopeful silver lining thinning against the storminess of the clouds and she is demanding the case move forward. </p>
<p>If she insists.  </p>
<p>Standing from his chair, Reyes uses the Charlatan’s entrance to interrogation level two and once he unlocks the door and steps inside, settling into the chair, he flips on the red light, telling his prisoner of his entrance. She notices immediately, her oval face whirling sharply upwards towards the high second one way mirror, long brown hair messy, sticking to parts of her face which she can’t correct with her hands fastened behind her back. The red light is as much an indication to Dorado as it is to Crux and Batus below, allowing them the green light to start now that all other collected information has been taken into account. The Turian steps inside with a chair in his hand to sit and play a cool façade of good cop bad cop and see what he can gain before the first drop of blood. </p>
<p>“You know why you’re here, Dorado.” Batus says, positioning the chair across from her and he sits, leaning an elbow on his prosthetic leg. </p>
<p>Nerves strung tight, she is more than ready to attempt talking her way out of her situation, flipping her hair roughly with a jerk of her head. Time has made her intonation brittle, and she almost laughs, a noise of irritation but further, more raw, more all-consuming, “I know you think I’m guilty of being at the sulfur lakes, which isn’t a crime.”</p>
<p>Batus slowly indicates with a hand and a slow nod that he acknowledges her position, “You’re not wrong. But that’s not where you were scheduled to be, was it?”</p>
<p>“I suppose I should’ve been telling everyone when I take a piss as well?”</p>
<p>“So it was a personal venture?”</p>
<p>“And if it was?”</p>
<p>Batus shrugs, uncaring either way, “We know about Derc.”</p>
<p>“Everyone knows about Derc.” </p>
<p>“Then your emails between him and Kaetus are merely casual acquaintance.”</p>
<p>“There’s hardly proof the email address you’re referring to is mine.”</p>
<p>Batus indicates to Crux through the window to bring out the datapad. She steps in, gliding her chestnut brown hair behind an ear and formally nods to the representative, “Dorado.” </p>
<p>Dorado’s brows lower with annoyance, but she holds her tongue for now. </p>
<p>“Last contact was this morning right before sunrise, the contents of the email sparse but revealing. One line ‘leaving the base.’ This email address does include the letter ‘D’ which we assume is for Dorado. And the location the email was sent from was Draullir.” Crux reads off, gaze rising after finishing to stare into the eyes of deception and allow it its lame camouflages. </p>
<p>With a sharp shrug, Dorado confidently provides, “It isn’t mine. Sure, I left the base but it doesn’t make the email mine.”</p>
<p>Above them the light flashes once, then twice and Batus rises from the chair, Dorado quickly following him with a demanding stare. </p>
<p>He leaves the room as she calls after him, “Where are you going?” When she isn’t given an answer she presses on Crux, “Where the hell is he going?”</p>
<p>“The Charlatan’s tired of playing twenty questions. They don’t think you have anything to offer in this interrogation and have moved on to the second stage of your arrest.” Crux glides the datapad into her pouch and steps out of the way, grabbing the chair with Dorado’s harsh, knife like laughter rising in disbelief. </p>
<p>“The Charlatan arrests me on false accusations and some sulfur and wants to move on from the questions?” </p>
<p>The light pales the colors from the entire room, Dorado’s usually warm tones on her face and brown hair going cool, the shadows even pale against the cold concrete of the floor. Her chair grinds against the bolts, “Hiding behind your window!” She hurls up at level two, “It’s easy to play king of the castle when you have nothing to lose!” Already the situation has her playing to her emotions, frustration making her mouth loose, and control once thought within her grasp slipping away eroding into desperation. Insult is easy, the growling of an animal backed into a corner. “Even if the base collapses no one will be the wiser of you!” </p>
<p>The door glides open again, two agents wheeling in a large container with Batus following pushing a multilevel shelf with glinting tools sterilized on top for easy access. Dorado sweeps the situation, turning her head over her shoulder to the container, large, rectangular and grey being pushed up against the wall. </p>
<p>“What’s that?”</p>
<p>“That’s for your body.” Crux states matter-of-factly, ticking the datapad in approval for the agents, confirming the supplies brought. They file out, the door sliding closed and Batus picks up a hammer from the highest surface examining the head checking to make sure of its cleanliness before he pulls out one shelf, a metal surface, flat, dinged slightly but otherwise unmarked. The shelf is sturdy on four solid wheels with stoppers to halt any movement if necessary and the shelves below are locked, keeping far worse, far more ominous devices to inspire cooperation. </p>
<p>“My-“ Whirling around, Dorado flinches at Crux’s approach, even as her hands are unlocked, her ankles still chained to the chair and gasps when one hand is roughly gripped by Batus and placed palm down onto the extended metal. Dorado’s whites of her eyes are visible even from interrogation level two. </p>
<p>“Did you honestly believe you were going to compromise the Collective’s security to the Outcast without the Charlatan knowing?” Batus asks, settling his grip on the hammer while he glances over the side to click the wheel stoppers into place with his boot. The confidence of bullshitting her way past other representatives is waning like the moon from full roundness to a sliver and she protests, glancing in horror between Batus’ hammer and her own hand, “I wouldn’t-“</p>
<p>“And to expect that we would need to convince further proof from you.” Crux says, stepping back again to relax back against the wall, “Your arrogance is admirable in its own way.”</p>
<p>With wild, questioning eyes, Dorado pleads further elaboration and Crux, without issue, says, “We already know everything, Dorado.” And Batus swings down with a splintering crack. </p>
<p>She shrieks, body jerking, arm spasming under Batus’ hold, her pointer finger splurting blood sharply. If she could stomp her foot, she likely would have but only her knee jumps in response, trying to access that planned escape thought so foolproof. Sweat is beading on her forehead but Batus doesn’t stop, merely slams another finger, crushing the middle, breaking the nail to pop it like the lid of a container. Her free hand wildly beats on him, full punches to his armor that arouse little more than a mild glance. </p>
<p>He brings the hammer up for a third and wildly Dorado pleads, “Wait, wait, I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” She is trembling, the purple of blood sinking below her eyes, a sickly color in her cheeks, “It’s my email!”</p>
<p>Batus looks up into level two’s window and the light flashes once. </p>
<p>“Not good enough.” Batus smashes the ring finger, boots scraping, and throwing her head back, Dorado lets out a scream, other hand clenching so tight blood is speckling the floor from her own nails in flesh. </p>
<p>She has a chance to stop him twice now and blurts, “I gave Derc’s hired Salarian the blind eye so he could try to find the base! It was me!”</p>
<p>Once again Batus slows his strike, and breathing through clenched teeth, Dorado swallows down vomit, nausea present with blinding pain. “I gave them the tip. But that stupid piece of shit got himself killed before he could find the <em>fucking</em> door!” The fit whips her hair around, her fist slamming her own thigh. Eyelids lowering, her stare goes vicious, cold, and she pins it to the upper level, “Nothing personal,” She sneers, “How could it be when nobody knows who the fuck you are? We all gotta have something to live for. Was I supposed to crawl around in dingy caves and pretend like it’s good enough forever? I just chose sides.”</p>
<p>“And Kaetus?” Crux asks, drawing Dorado’s attention. </p>
<p>With a slight tremor, Dorado corrects her hair, “He was asking around and I happened to overhear. So I got in touch with Derc, let him be the middle man. But it didn’t quite work as planned and I needed to get a little more involved. If the Initiative was paying, I would’ve sold the base to the highest bidder.”</p>
<p>“No Outcast recruiting speech?” </p>
<p>A bit of manic laughter escapes her, “They could never convince me to trade one dingy shithole for another!” Sliding into her seat further, settling into her position, Dorado swallows, levels her brow, “No, I was going to give up the Charlatan and find a way into a cushy position on the Nexus… like how Spender’s doing it.” Sighing, she seems to see her fate in her mind’s eye and calms, “Man knows what he’s doing here. Should’ve aligned myself better.”</p>
<p>Batus looks to Crux who gives a slight shrug, “Some are impatient for results.” </p>
<p>Lowering the hammer back to the shelf, the Turian says, “Alright, Dorado, you’ve been forthcoming with us and now we need to know what you and Kaetus decided.” </p>
<p>“So you can stuff me in that box and throw me in the sulfur lakes?” Her canines flash, “I’d rather bleed out than give you the satisfaction.”</p>
<p>“You’re already in the box, Dorado. We’re just measuring how painful it will get until then.” Batus replies, pulling up a set of keys, old fashioned, and begins to unlock the bottom drawer, bending down. He isn’t worried about her free hands, the clatter of a knife being drawn up off the shelf clear in the room. Swing arching overhead for better strength, Batus opens his stance, pistol from his hip nestling against the underside of her chin, halting Dorado’s frontal attack. He curls his finger tighter around the trigger as she twitches, knife glinting in the light. </p>
<p>“I’ll blow your nose off.” He warns, repositioning his aim, yellowed eyes serious against black, “Try me.” </p>
<p>The mangled, injured hand is in Dorado’s lap, tender, blood staining her suit and she tosses the knife after another second between them. It clatters along the concrete, her mouth opening. Flipping his wrist up, he bounces the butt of his gun against the bridge of her nose, beating the blood out easily, following it with another smack to her jaw, face impassive, even, and then draws the drawer open as she gasps horridly, good hand quickly cupping red. </p>
<p>He draws cords with metal clips out from the drawer, straightening them out and attaches them to the metal chair. A large heavy box is set on the concrete, flipped on with a low buzz. Connected is a remote and Batus finally straightens up, stepping back. </p>
<p>“Would you like to tell us about Kaetus’ plans for the Collective?” </p>
<p>“Fuck you-“ </p>
<p>He turns it on. A jolt rips through her, the spasm sucking the cry from her throat, sealing her teeth shut. It’s brief, only a few seconds but Dorado is left ragged, shaking, trying just for breath. She glares but rage has been electrified from her eyes. </p>
<p>“I’ll turn up the voltage. I’m asking one more time, what did you and Kaetus agree on?”</p>
<p>Her silence an answer itself, Batus rotates a dial then flips the switch, the chair clattering, Dorado’s eyes rolling involuntarily. Her free hand jerks wildly but it has nowhere to go and when she slumps down, the Turian gives her a moment to collect herself, the blood now a dried almost brown splatter on her bruised face. There’s sure to be scorch marks around her ankles. </p>
<p>“Dorado?” </p>
<p>A wail erupts from her, long and terrible, a release of turmoil, anguish. Her death is beginning to weigh her shoulders, the cold, boney hands of the reaper curling around her soul’s ankles. She breathes, heaves, then says, “Let’s make a deal.”</p>
<p>Batus’ expression remains even. </p>
<p>“I’ll give you the information, right? Every detail. But don’t put me in the box. Arrest me. Put me in a cell. Give me a chance. We all make mistakes.”</p>
<p>“You realize you not only put everyone in the Collective at jeopardy but you were actively pursuing civil war? Sloane would have pulled the base apart without a single moment’s hesitation, but only by the proper security measures were you caught.”</p>
<p>“Now, wait, Crux.” Batus stops the other representative, “Everything’s had plenty of risk since the beginning. Dorado’s aware of just how many lives could have been lost. Redemption is something earned.”</p>
<p>Brown eyes flicking between the two, Dorado waits stiffly, lips chapped and mind flying for the best defense. </p>
<p>“I think you’re ready to talk then, Dorado?”</p>
<p>If anything appears as a chance to see sunlight again, it’s this and she begins. </p>
<p>Sloane is planning to host a formal meeting with the Pathfinder. Kaetus didn’t give Dorado the details but the Charlatan knows it is mostly a front to prevent Ryder from going to the Nexus for a deal with Spender. There’s further detail aligning up as a proper schedule but Kaetus’ plans were to stand in at the meeting, wait for Sloane to make decision about the Initiative’s hero, and then meet with Dorado to gain access to the base after setting off her EMPs to disable the security and set the base into chaos and darkness. Diplomacy performed is meant for all eyes, a pretense that there is nothing being prepared behind the scenes but Kaetus was readying to strike and use the Pathfinder and a possible outpost as a cover. </p>
<p>When Dorado finishes, Batus thanks her, draws his pistol and gives her no more than a second to process before he puts a bullet between her eyes. He glides his gun back away and begins unfastening the electrical cords. Redemption is not always another chance but a painless transition. When the drawer is locked again, Crux offers the knife to Batus. </p>
<p>“I don’t know why you insist on unlocking both of their hands in these situations. You know more often than not they attempt something.”</p>
<p>He takes it, puts it back in place, and his mouth shows the faintest smile, “Nothing gives better adrenaline than high stakes. Got to keep the reflexes sharp.” </p>
<p>She glances to the door as agents file in to move the body, “One of these days you might actually get stabbed.” And he gives a breath of laughter. There is a third agent to clean blood from the floor, wash away any reminders of what happened here in this room and as Crux and Batus step out, one to wheel away the cart and body and the other to file the official report, she glances to level two and sees the light off. The Charlatan is gone and loose limbs are folded into an accounted coffin.  </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>The Pathfinder stands at the Outcast base in white, his uniform clean of wrinkles and gleaming in the daylight. Standing at his shoulder is Cora Harper who has her arms folded behind her, stance solid but smile genuine. They’re talking, chuckling and when he leans in to hear her comment, his eyes show a sparkle, folding in with amusement. </p>
<p>Finally, the doors open, a guard ushering them in and the market watches on, eyes still available on the inside. They pass Radwan who is standing guard duty in the hallway, arms folded and then another agent, a broad-shouldered man with blond, short hair that glows against his dark complexion. His hazel eyes follow like the graceful movement of a snake in the grass, the white of two official uniforms distinct in the hallways of dark smothering greys and blacks with highlights of red and shadow. He slowly lowers his cigarette, smoke bursting around his face, his jaw, but the Pathfinder is here on business and follows duty with a determined path. </p>
<p>They don’t walk to the throne room, but instead to the conference hall, where deliberation and discussion is conducted amongst the Outcast, and meetings with the Angara take place. A mole is standing in the room, by the bar which is dark, empty, hardly a bottle on its wall from the party. Sloane isn’t there yet, but the guard offers a seat to both the Pathfinder and his second in command before the door glides shut behind them. </p>
<p>Ryder is careful not to touch more than necessary but he and Cora slowly move their way through the baren room with its large table, and pushed in chairs. Formality present but raw faced, Sloane’s diplomatic strategy exists clearly as a relic of military standards and patched work after the Port was secured and not because she holds a standard for it. </p>
<p>Cora walks over to the wall where the one large window is covered by a metal blind and turns to Ryder, “How do you think the view is?”</p>
<p>His gaze goes distant, memory induced and he walks to stand next to her, glancing over for a means to open it. “Probably beautiful in its own way.” Pressing the button, the grates begin to rise, machinery moving with a grind, sunlight flooding in. Their dress shoes shine, white clothing vibrant to their shadows and the Port slowly unfolds, reflecting in the window. Ships glide down from the sky, the light of their exhaust bright blue with heat, the bodies dusty with travel. Lives are led here, darkened buildings full of story and past, and the arching old glories of a Port that survived a blood bath makes its signs of life powerful, resilience proved twice over with the Angara and the exiles who call this world home. Ryder looks across rooftops, brow pinching slightly in the light. </p>
<p>“Is that how your job goes, Pathfinder?” A tone stings with criticism from across the room, “Touch things you shouldn’t until something happens?” </p>
<p>He turns, face profiled with sunlight, to Sloane standing in the doorway, armored suit and defenses and all ready for a figurative arm wrestle. She walks along the other side of the table, eyes assessing the uniform as Ryder steps away from the window and her sneer curls, folding her dark scar. </p>
<p>“I see you’ve got rank. Did you earn that or did daddy pass it down to you?” </p>
<p>“That’s about as relevant as your self-given title as warlord of the Port.” Ryder stops directly across from her, each standing at the first chair before the head of the table and Sloane’s dark eyebrows tighten. “If you’ve forgotten, Andromeda is a fresh start to all things, including rank.” He says as he gracefully unbuttons his jacket and smooths it down to sit. </p>
<p>Cora follows his lead, sitting to his right and folds her hands on the table, ready for business. </p>
<p>“I don’t have all day,” The Pathfinder says after a long moment of tense silence, “I’m due at the Nexus.”</p>
<p>“Are you now?” Interest harsh, bubbling like a hot pan of oil, Sloane kicks out her chair and drops into it, “Due at the Nexus?” Tapping her finger densely on the table, she thinks, drawing a leg up onto the chair. “After our meeting then?”</p>
<p>Ryder stares at her, trying to figure out the line of questioning, “Yes. I was due before this impromptu meeting but I made time.”</p>
<p>Chuckling, Sloane relaxes and says, “How kind of you. Is that how you do it, kill ‘em with kindness? Does it work on the Kett?” Laughter catches and she glances to the door. “He’s late.” She mutters, sudden in her mood shift downward, less annoyance and more guarded concern but hardly discernable with her scowl. A message pings on her omni-tool and then on Ryder’s. </p>
<p>They both glance to the other and then check their respective contacts. Turning to Cora, her Pathfinder murmurs, “Drack’s looking for us.”</p>
<p>“Is it urgent?” She asks and he glances into the message again, “Looks like it.”</p>
<p>Sloane interrupts, “I won’t appreciate you walking out on me, Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t planning on it.” </p>
<p>Leaning back into her chair, she indicates with one dark gloved hand, “Sell it to me then. Sell me the outpost. Sell me that pretty packaged hope you’ve got so available.” </p>
<p>In his shared office, collecting his final details, securing his plan, sending off an email that won’t reach its desired contact, Kaetus straightens up to join his leader at a meeting he hopes makes good coverage. The door glides open, and he slows, expression closing. Glancing to the other desk without moving, he knows Krid is at his security unit in the market and their merchandising supplier is not due until tomorrow. He moves his hand off the datapads with careful precision hearing the footsteps come one step in, then another and the door close. </p>
<p>Silence is harsh between them. This is someone who shouldn’t be in this office. He has one chance to take control. Trying not to expose his intention to draw his gun, he reaches forward for his weapon case. </p>
<p>“I wouldn’t.” The voice says and it runs the Turian’s blood cool. They know his desk. But he’s been a man against common sense for a while and as he sees his badge in the corner of his eye, he thinks he’s not going to suddenly change now. The box is activated by registering his omni-tool signal and as it beeps open, he snatches his gun and spins around to shoot, jerking harshly with a heavy tackle, arms coming around him like a vice. </p>
<p>He grunts against the table, bouncing datapads onto the floor with a scattered clatter. The man brings his head up, the crown of his skull smashing into Kaetus’ jaw and one hand grips his wrist, pushing his aim wide, and with the precision of an assassin he flips his own hand and forces Kaetus to shoot into the floor, wasting bullets. </p>
<p>The door opens and Outcast uniforms file in, hope rushing as the weapon is torn from his grip. But when his attacker steps back, black eyes glinting and dark hair pulled into a familiar ponytail, Kaetus recognizes him. Davidson, and he glances across the other soldiers, dread stretching his stomach down to a dark pit. Men he thought his own kind. </p>
<p>“The Charlatan extends their regards.” Davidson says, mouth curling and the sadism that sits along the man’s teeth proves he’s been long discovered. They don’t need to play games of dodging proof and painting pictures; he knows they wouldn’t be here without damning information on him. </p>
<p>“We can’t both exist on the Port like this.” Kaetus finally says, and the spy grins wider, sliding on brass knuckles with excruciating patience towards performance, “You’re right. We can’t.” </p>
<p>Breathing, closing his eyes a moment, Kaetus resigns himself to having failed and before the Collective descends on him, thinks of Sloane and a rare smile that had inspired his first step into oblivion. </p>
<p>The door to the meeting room opens, and a soldier stands, sweat on his forehead, eyes wild. All three sitting at the table turn their gazes towards the man and Sloane demands, “What? Didn’t I say no interruptions unless an emergency?”</p>
<p>He presses a hand up through his red hair, pushing back curls and says, “It’s- it’s Kaetus.” He’s pale, freckles harsh on his cheeks. </p>
<p>Standing in one sharp motion, Sloane leaves the table, stalking around the other chairs and before she’s vanished from the room, she says, “Don’t go anywhere, Pathfinder.” Leaving Ryder following her with his eyes. He glances to Cora who says low, “I’m getting a bad feeling.”</p>
<p>The mole watches from the side, quiet, hands folded behind his back. </p>
<p>An agent stays behind to catch Sloane’s reaction to blood on the walls, to the gruesome reality of their division on Kadara and as she walks into the hallway toward the darkened office, the light having been busted out of the ceiling, her usually aggressive, determined steps slow. Without a mask, she looks across the present faces, the mole, her own men, and can’t find a distinction even when suspicion is evident in the examination. </p>
<p>Shoving a man out of her way with a bold hand, she walks into the office and the sight sucks the already dense and irony air out of the room. Her back looks caved, shoulders stiffening and after a long moment of looking at the unconscious body of her most trusted, most valuable companion in the terror of an office raided, his limbs awkward with bad angles and his blood a wash of blue looking like black in the shadow she roars, whirling on the men with a vicious hand, “Call the fucking med team! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her voice bounces through the entire hallway, old trauma rearing its head when there was the same sense of dawning horror and helplessness and <em>no</em> med team to alleviate fear of death. When one agent doesn’t move, legs frozen, a man on Kaetus’ personal field team, she backhands him and hurtles him into action. </p>
<p>“Faster, you motherfucker!” </p>
<p>She’s by his side within another breath, kneeling in his blood, fingers careful. Checks for life, relief flashing in her eyes. She’s not one prone to hope, only trusting the raw and brutal details of reality. Then she sees it. The mole watches on with intense eyes. </p>
<p>Picking up the badge slowly off his chest, his body drooped partially up against the desk, she turns it over and sees scratched over her own message one meant for her eyes. Those involved know what is written there. The mole, Shuba, sucks in one breath, careful not to distract and waits for her reaction. </p>
<p>‘Draullir Caves, C’ </p>
<p>Sloane grips the badge tighter and tighter, hissing against the metal. When she whirls, suddenly hyper aware of all those walking her halls, her own people thought trustworthy, Shuba has already left for the base and only ghosts of a phantom fear coming back to life are waiting in the hallway. </p>
<p>Soon rushing footsteps approach and the med team arrives, satchels ready, blood transfusions available and take over the moment, letting Sloane Kelly step back, watch on from the darkness of the room and tumble further and further into emotion. Safety snatched away, resistance is futile to the first shot in the dark. No longer is there an issue of whether the Collective is actually a threat. </p>
<p>Bursting back into the room, she lays her eyes on the Pathfinder who is standing, talking with Drack on a line about needing to return to Elaaden on emergency business. Morda is demanding his assistance and he turns, telling Drack he will return to the Tempest if given just another moment. Cora is still sitting, typing on her omni-tool and when Sloane sees the far-off agent she orders with ferocity, “Get the fuck out of here!”</p>
<p>Blindsided by her demand, he quickly jumps to action, unable to resist an honest reaction, licking his lips nervously, shoulders hunched as he walks on. But he is given another moment to listen, another second of information. </p>
<p>“I’ve got something better to do than sit talking about Initiative outposts that will never see the light of day, Pathfinder.” Sloane snarls, all games of pretend and possibility punched in just like her second in command. </p>
<p>And the door closes on the conversation. </p>
<p>Sloane’s personal ship roars to life as guards flood into positions outside. The dock is filled with movement, guns at every angle and any travel between the slums and the upper levels of the Port is swiftly restricted to Outcast only. Krid vanishes from his visible place at his security unit, replaced with another Krogan and the Pathfinder is seen stepping back onto the Tempest with Cora. Fast moving smaller vehicles for cargo transport growl to life, soldiers yelling over the engines to one another. The Port screams of Outcast, but insecurity is rampant. The dog bares its teeth and hopes to deter the wolf from descending onto its vulnerable throat but won’t take the first lunge, not yet. </p>
<p>In the depths of Draullir, Radwan loads his sniper rifle, standing next to Shuba who is checking her ammunition. One of Makerix’s longest standing undercover agents, Shuba’s been waiting inside the Outcast uniform since the formation of the Collective’s infiltration unit officially handling signals in case violence were to erupt and the base needed a chance to prepare. She nods to Radwan, glances to the other agents who will watch from the shadows of harsh rock and secret dips in the walls and then vanishes to her position.</p>
<p>Stepping up into one of the winding passages, Radwan approaches Reyes who is listening to intel from various channels and sending orders to Crux and Lynx as well as Batus for their units in case civil war is a landmine under their careful stepping. Months of detail, slow appraisal, drills for sudden changing tides have fortified their hearts from nerves, the stakes mapped out from their best situations to the final man and his last move, a legacy to burn into Kadara’s soul. </p>
<p>“She’s in the air.” Reyes says and Radwan, nodding, pulling a dark mask over his face, asks, “Did we confirm who is with her?”</p>
<p>It would be expected for Sloane Kelly to arrive alongside her two big body guards under normal circumstance, but with her loyal people now a dark ocean wave that blurs between sky and water, confusing the common eye to what is dangerous and what is merely scenery, she may even come alone. “Likely Krid and Chug.” Reyes answers and closes down his omni-tool.</p>
<p>Aroane has swiped a transport from New Tuchanka with timing unparalleled, and it calls for immediate action, begging for a certain handsome face to take charge. The Tempest’s probability of having already lifted off the ground to aid Elaaden is high, the sabotage eerily similar to a certain attempt to slash Krogan numbers when they were banished from the Nexus and Reyes knows if Kaetus’ plot against the Collective hadn’t been discovered, there would have been little to prevent Sloane from hitting the Nexus in all the confusion and distraction. </p>
<p>The air begins to chop with an approaching ship and Radwan follows the dark path upward into the higher levels of the cave. An agent speaks into their comms, “Sloane’s ship approaching, readying for touchdown.” </p>
<p>Success leading to a universe felt butterfly’s effect, Reyes straightens his gloves and readies himself to the barrage of reaction amongst his Collective key members to finally put to rest who has been watching them from the top. Roaring echoes through into the cave, wind picking up at the entrance. </p>
<p>A door cracks open, alarms winding to make sure no obstacle is in the way and Sloane descends from her ramp, grizzly in expression, emotion her curse, violent, overbearing, as raw as the wounds of her highest rank, and her drive. Setting can change for everyone but it is not so easy to escape the self, and like walking down the hallways of a shattered, burning Nexus, she stalks toward devastation, unafraid of the challenge this time. </p>
<p>The cave is shrouded, nothing but the warlord’s own presence obvious and an agent suddenly hisses, “It’s not Krid and Chug.” Urgency sharpens their tone and what they say next feels cold to the back, an unexpected blow to the defenses. </p>
<p>“It’s the Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>It isn’t often intel doesn’t line up for Reyes, miscalculation easily avoided with objective care to analysis and he commends the Pathfinder for taking his streak. Thoughts fly together. </p>
<p>He’s supposed to have left to defeat the hostilities against the Krogan future. And the Tempest is supposed to be off Kadara and away from the collapse of their politics for fresh rules and he’s certainly not supposed to be walking alongside the a highly recognized criminal and brutalizer who has every intention of burying good people for a grudge, something far from the Pathfinder’s brand. Spender’s timing was supposed to be as much a benefit to the Collective as the Outcast, calling ‘fire’ to the universe’s ‘fire extinguisher.’  </p>
<p>“Tempest second in command Harper is with him.” </p>
<p>Reyes doesn’t have an appropriate alternative to a wild card, “Proceed as planned.”</p>
<p>“Use the Krogan cuffs on the Pathfinder?” </p>
<p>The flash grenade of a memory stalls him a second, a stabbing reminder of the level of risk they bear in their positions, Ryder on the floor of the Roekaar base, arms cuffed behind his back, blood and dirt and cruelty obvious in his bruises. But the Charlatan’s personal inclination can’t be known as the man behind the Pathfinder. “As long as he can’t interfere, your method of subduing him is irrelevant.” He walks forward, down the arched tunnel, shadow on his shoulders, a friend for all this time getting ready to fall away, “Wait for my signal.” </p>
<p>Shuba is standing far across, dark eyes gleaming like a hawk, crouched perfectly in blended to the darkness. Her eyes smoothly follow Sloane Kelly stalking through the entrance with Ryder a few steps behind now in his armor, weapons holstered but helmet locked overtop his jump jet. With a quick, whipping glance around, Sloane’s lips curl aggressively, irritation evident. Nothing to her but shadows and her own failure twice over to provide security to a faction she was responsible for waits in Draullir caves. Reyes stares at Ryder, squeezes his hand, sensing the deep trust he has with his own reflexes and drops down from the passage way obscure in the angles of rock without lighting. </p>
<p>“You look like you’re waiting for someone.” He says, and the flood of attention is as striking as the light pouring in from the opening in the cave’s ceiling. His own agents watch on in awe, Shuba’s eyes dipping up and down along him in admiration for a man to withstand the length of his undercover and still have secrecy, and Crux, who is listening, in breathes in surprise to the opened channel that hasn’t spoken a word yet to the public of the Collective until now. But nothing is as potent as the Pathfinder’s reaction. </p>
<p>Ryder’s shock is unmuted, eyes searching, his name punched out, like he’s breathless, “Reyes.” It isn’t a question, but it asks a thousand. Cora’s eyes fly to him, the emotion spoken through just one word implausible for a business connection. </p>
<p>Barking a half laugh, Sloane regards him in mild disgust and dismissal, “The Charlatan and I have business. I have nothing to work around with some third-rate smuggler.” </p>
<p>“This is between you and me.” Reyes says slow and each word tells her the truths she’s overlooked. </p>
<p>Eyes giving him the up down, tongue wetting lips, she regards him in a new light, “I’ve waited for the day I could see the Charlatan’s face. I’ll give you the respect you deserve, this is a surprise. I might have expected an Angara to stand here. They’re a hard race to please.” Sloane exposes her canines, slowly stalking the ring of light Reyes is standing in from the hole in the ceiling, “You were at my party…” She murmurs, remembering, “Talking to Keema, talking to plenty of people… Right in the open, ballsy.” Finally proven to acknowledge credit where it is due, he thinks she might not underestimate him here. </p>
<p>“The risks are worth the reward.” </p>
<p>“You want to settle things? Tearing the Port in half not working for your greed?” </p>
<p>He doesn’t need to react to petty fire starting. He’s above that now. “A duel. Right now. Winner takes Kadara Port. It’s already divided enough.” He taps his chest plate, where he was once hit by her bodyguard’s cannon, “Actually wound me and you’ll have the Port back under your control.” His eyes lower, expression sharpening, adrenaline and heart bare, “And you can claim your revenge for Kaetus.”</p>
<p>Disgust curdles any amusement Sloane might’ve had, the soldier beneath her scars thriving on being battle ready. She didn’t rip the Port from Kett claws by luck. “Underhanded and pathetic means to an end.”</p>
<p>“Hearing you speak of underhanded tactics is nothing but humorous. Don’t you know what Kaetus was doing to ensure such injuries?”</p>
<p>Her gaze flares, protective and sharp but not completely in the light. She does not know about Kaetus working with the Pathfinder on more than just delivering her the Kett, or relying on people in the slums to help her movement. He hadn’t yet revealed his connections in the Collective and that works in Reyes’ favor. Information at a high price, one that can’t be refunded. </p>
<p>Ryder steps forward, ready to pull Sloane to a figurative place of level headedness, give her his consult and Reyes raises a hand, one finger indicating ever so slightly. He won’t allow the hero to offer wisdom, a misguided service. Grabbing Ryder from the back, pinning his arms, folding him down and holding his head, agents dearm him roughly and while it takes three men, the number can be considered few for the Pathfinder, defeater of the Flophouse, Ryder’s shock and confusion still weigh him down. Cora draws her gun immediately and Shuba puts her barrel out to her, long arm straight like her aim. Tension goes tight, a cord strung to its final limits and Ryder jerks his head free after the cuffs are locked in place, glaring in hot question to Reyes. </p>
<p>“It’s not your place, Pathfinder. Even if she did bring you as her shield. Devious, tactic, Sloane. Can’t afford to lose the numbers with your own men?”</p>
<p>Her cooled gaze flicks back to Reyes, catching fire again. </p>
<p>“Or do you no longer know who are actually your men?  Finally aware your Outcast soldiers are painfully lacking against the Collective?”</p>
<p>Sloane’s snarl harshens, hatred evident. The truth is somewhere beneath, hidden in those words but she refuses to give him the satisfaction of an explanation. She is not naïve to a game of poker, and certainly will last until she is forced to fold. “How do I know you’ll honor the regulations of a duel? Men like you always cheat.” </p>
<p>Lifting both hands, he exposes the one weapon at his hip, “Just the pistol. And my reflexes.” </p>
<p>“You acquisition control of your Collective pyramid to me if I kill you?”</p>
<p>“In its entirety.”</p>
<p>“And if I just critically wound you?” There’s honest sadism in her different colored irises. </p>
<p>He quirks a smile, razor sharp, “How you win the duel is your choice.” </p>
<p>She stares at him, eyes narrowing, assessing, and demands, “Answer me this. Why now?”</p>
<p>“Your number two was getting a little too close for comfort. And tension is high. There’s timing to be had, momentum our best bet.” He knows this is the exact moment to take hold of the chaos and force it to submit, “I have big plans for Kadara.” </p>
<p>“That you’re ready to sacrifice for the chance to toss me aside?”</p>
<p>“You’re a formidable blockade. And Kaetus just about discovered my secrets. You chose right, that one, he had your back from the beginning. A little softer than expected, cracked under only a couple men, maybe because he was worried-“</p>
<p>“Enough!” Sloane tears her hand through his prodding, weak to loyalty and certainly to blood drawn from a Turian she can only speak well of when talking in truths and honesty. Her hand is on her weapon, tight with tension but she relaxes, if just barely, and reigns in the rage hungering for blood. </p>
<p>Nothing can keep some part of his attention dividing when Ryder’s involved so Reyes observes Ryder’s dawning expression to Sloane respond exactly how she’s meant to and he jerks hard in the hands pushing his shoulders down, “Sloane!” He protests, trying to lift his arms from the weight of the cuffs, “Stop this-!” He was on good terms with Kaetus, saw the potential for the Turian to pull Sloane further into a conversation amongst officials and for that there is protest to using him as fodder to fuel the opposite of his motive. If Ryder believes there can be proper democracy between all leaders he will find this truth taking a life threatening blow today. Even if he is unaware of the changes made to good men when bias takes over, exposure will ensure ignorance’s passing.</p>
<p>“Death by a thousand cuts.” Reyes murmurs, staring hard at Sloane who sneers angrily, “I’ll take your terms. And I’ll put your head on a spike after I bleed all your little secrets out of you. You should’ve killed Kaetus when you had the chance, because every injury he’s endured I’m going to return.” </p>
<p>“I didn’t want to break your heart.”</p>
<p>Indignation flushes under her eyes and furiously she says, “How many of your men were pretending to be my men?”</p>
<p>“By this point? Too many for you not to take it personally. But if it makes you feel better, your two heavies were loyal till the end.”</p>
<p> “You’re right.” She concedes, and they begin to circle one another, “I don’t need the Pathfinder for this. I’ll kill you and stomp your little rat hole of spies into nothing. There won’t even be a memorial for ‘The Charlatan’ because I’m going to erase you from history.” </p>
<p>“Sloane-“ Ryder tries to rise to a foot, creaking beneath the two Collective hands on him, and Reyes glances over, letting him have his say, the handcuffs too heavy to give him any balance. He knows the security of the Pathfinder is only as foolproof as the one using it and he’s enticed their warlord enough to prevent her hiding behind the accountable and reasonable Initiative mediator. “Think about the Port-“ But Sloane interrupts him immediately, snapping, “Fuck off, Pathfinder, I’m being given my opportunity to finally put this feud to rest. Just like everything else I’ve accomplished on this planet, I’m going to beat it into submission. You’re here just as much to keep you away from somewhere else because I have no actual intention of aligning with the Initiative.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s brows pinch, confusion evident, and Cora quickly looks between the players, eyeing Shuba but her mind is moving faster amongst the critical faces. Sloane can envision her legacy now, just in reach, the power she’s thirsted for and the ability to punch literal holes in trust she resents for outliving her own. She can step into the light of a transformed glory, one she dreamed of before her soul hardened to stone, and it fits her passions. Even with a crumbling kingdom, she sees the death of her enemy a victory banner flying in the barren lands of battle. </p>
<p>“How convenient for Spender then. I’m sure he’ll be appreciative.” Reyes comments, enjoying how he jabs confidence with precision, Sloane’s brows caving in, daring him to reveal more, daring him to further prove her need to eradicate him from the picture. </p>
<p>Ryder reacts, blindsided, “What-“</p>
<p>“You’re going to be splatter on these cave walls you favorite so much.” Sloane hurls, vicious to her plans’ exposure by casual remark. The stakes tick up, “All your agents are going to die by association. How does it feel to be the cause for so many people lost?”</p>
<p>“You tell me.” </p>
<p>They circle one another further, the face of violence and the hidden cunning of survival at its best. Sloane has a quick draw, practiced and honed through dedication and faith in her weapon and after the tragedy, any buzz that would harm her nerves has been hammered out. She will kill him. She has all the reasons to.</p>
<p>While there is the opportunity to reveal how much he knows of her associations, of Spender’s capable plan for further destabilization, the timing would only incur further anger and although deserved, doesn’t provide anything more than gloating. It is a viable card to lay down before the Initiative though, right on schedule for negotiations. Adrenaline is heavy beneath the surface, and he feels every muscle, each movement exact. He <em>is</em> Kadara’s future, Sloane now a relic of their past, an outdated coping mechanism to trauma now scarred over. </p>
<p>“What was your name again?” Sloane suddenly asks, staring hard at his face like she will carry the slant of his brow, the line of his lips with her forward in her darkness. He can see her finger do a telltale twitch, a minute indication of her intention and curves his smile ever so slightly, stopping at the edge of the circle of light. A glint in the back catches Ryder’s attention and he wrestles one guy off him with a strong jerk of his shoulders, the cuffs heavy but he’s a step too late, and the shot hits the Outcast warlord, piercing armor, rupturing shields and knocking the air from her lungs and the Pathfinder slows, breathing heavily.</p>
<p>Cora’s aim swings towards Reyes and Ryder jerks his head up, shouting, “No!” halting her, barely preventing the exchange of bullet for bullet but certainly baring his favor.</p>
<p>“Ryder?” </p>
<p>“Reyes Vidal.” The Charlatan answers, watching on as Sloane slams gracelessly to a knee, the symbolic transfer of a crown of bones and endurance starting between them. The location is the eerie spot where Reyes has a dent in his plate, a long-awaited retaliation. Having not even drawn his weapon, he comes forward a step as Sloane quickly presses aggressive fingers to the blood, gasping, gritting teeth through red and rage. Her glare is the heat of Elaaden, and she rasps, “Like I thought.” She forces through internal rupture, “You’re a fucking cheat. This whole universe is a cheat!” The instinct, the final grab towards Reyes’ ankle to drag him to hell with her has her gun flying up and he whips his pistol out of its holster and pulls the trigger, knocking her forehead back as a shot runs by his arm, barely missing. Her gun clatters to stone with her collapse, face cooling rapidly like her temperature. Sloane is no longer here in Andromeda, a brutal soul devoured by an even more brutal world. And Reyes glides his weapon back into its holster easily, duel won as promised by his reflex and one pistol. </p>
<p>“Sweet dreams, Queen. I’ll let Kaetus prepare your funeral. The reign of the Outcast is officially over.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Abyss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Duty calls after everything, maybe in spite of everything.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've enjoyed reimagining Drack's loyalty mission and I hope to do it an interesting twist! Thanks for reading as always (:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cora hesitates to lower her weapon as she watches an agent with striking green eyes unlock the cuffs and free Ryder who stiffly stands, rolling his shoulders and twisting his arms back to feeling. Shuba glances to Reyes, sees a signal to approach and lowers her own gun, walking past Cora, eyeing her with intensity that Cora follows, slowly turning. The Collective senses no danger from the Pathfinder but there is a division, a line that stretches like a canyon, uncrossable, the other side visible but not accessible. Agents come in a wave, suddenly a force, wearing pride as noticeable as uniform. </p><p>“Prepare the crew.” Reyes is saying, Radwan standing by with his gun, mask pulled off, men and women of the shadows now welcome to the light of the Charlatan, “Kadara Port is ours tonight.” The energy is a moment in history and Ryder is staring at him, gaze transformed and raw, like the tender inner flesh of a recent wound. People move between them, Draullir caves roaring to life, orders bringing fresh people forward to help collect Sloane’s body and fly her ship out of the open. </p><p>Through the strength of Reyes’ power, his position and influence revealed, Cora’s inspection has changed from simple examination to careful, guarded analysis. No longer is he one man living in the mysteries of his trade, a sole survivor on the other side willing to give them useful tips for better footing on hostile ground but an entire movement alive and well and dangerous. There is honest conflict ready to arise, an assignment that will forever be coupled with a sense of failure alongside a brutal realization that there are secrets even between team members, capable of shifting entire missions. He can see through the stiff angles of her stance she is ready to leave, regroup, uncomfortable standing in a base full of possible enemies after aligning with their fallen nemesis. </p><p> “I’d like to talk to the Pathfinder.” Reyes says, his empire of spies over his shoulders, illuminating an exile way of life, of the validity of their separation from the Nexus and resilience crafted unbreakable and of a certain lawless cunning that shouldn’t be underestimated. He offers a bridge across that canyon, one Cora doesn’t find stable proven by the hardened stare he receives.</p><p>Ryder’s eyelashes move, but he’s in slow motion, shell shocked and only Cora reacts when Reyes elaborates. </p><p>“Alone.”</p><p>She is visibly against the idea, and it shows in her facials, usually contained, even when determined to express her opinions and while she thrives in objectivity at her best here there is raw, unfiltered reaction. Her brows quickly fold, and a defense flairs, “I won’t allow the Pathfinder to be alone with the Charlatan-“ She doesn’t trust the hand across the chasm that was once thought separate from them by position of authority now calling the Pathfinder to the other side. What awaits is no longer a simple transaction between information broker and soldier and something, maybe just the edge of instinct is warning her of him, of crossing too far over a line believed once so clear. And maybe she would have had the Pathfinder’s ear if it was any other man. </p><p>Ryder steps forward, only stopping briefly by her hand grabbing his arm. </p><p>“Ryder.” She says with urgency, and a sharp, even slightly pained demand. This is the man who challenged and killed Sloane Kelly, the shadowed force beneath the Port roaring to life like a dark ocean wave in a storm. What she sees in his gaze softens the intensity of her stare, the demand becoming more of a question and he takes her hand in his, saying, “I’ll be right back.” And removes it from his arm. Far too forgiving to be betrayal stings her expression and the trust built this far remains evident in her gaze as she follows his back, still wearing a uniform that displays the Initiative’s emblem and that pretty white that Ryder once wore at a time when his loyalties could never be questioned. </p><p>He crosses the threshold, and Reyes finally turns away from the eyes of a dedicated second in command who is not oblivious to pieces that appear to go together. They walk, agents moving past them, guns clacking into holsters, discussion of rushing the Port echoing over them but Ryder is silent in the face of the political shift, to the overthrowing of a warlord for a different pyramid of power. In the grandness of the moment, he is just another passerby, a member amongst their celebrations, welcome to their unity created without the overarching presence of the Nexus and its finely molded dreams. He is the audience tonight. </p><p> They find a space of solitude, an overarching cliff to the open sky, and in the near distance is the sulfur lakes, the untamed natural land of Kadara stretching as far as the eyes can see. Air touches their faces, gentle, a high wind and Ryder finally breathes like it hurts. Guilt is etched in his brow, something deep and penetrating. He runs his hand up through his hair, eyes going far, far across Kadara. The long silence speaks as much as anything but to avoid the conversation entirely is impossible. </p><p>“Ryder.” </p><p>A sting, and he turns his gaze, and sees Reyes looking at him straight on. Blinking away the distance, he turns his body but the words don’t come. He instead looks the man before him up and down, and even in the muted pain of shock and personal turmoil, there is respect. At one point Reyes expected his leadership, or even his rank if his title went undiscovered, in the Collective would have brought him a gaze hardened with distrust, a sneer at the secrecy needed to survive and dismissal by the poster soldier of the Initiative but if Ryder can surprise him once today, he can do it twice.  </p><p>“The Angaran spy, your interest in the Roekaar murders, the party. Everything you’ve done has been to undermine Sloane’s power.” There isn’t blame here, just recognition, acknowledgment of something long present before his full digestion and Reyes watches him piece together the Charlatan, the shadow, the infiltrator, the web of dozens of channels for information and the man he’s invited into his bed and wanted harder than other things in this universe of possibilities. “All this time, you’ve been lying to me.” And he slowly needs to sit, lowering himself onto a flattened rock, pressing his head into his hands, “Lying to protect yourself from..” The sentence trails off, too deep a wound to speak without blood spilling out but Reyes can follow him, and can hear the echo of it beneath. Lying to protect yourself from danger like me. The exile murderer, the crusher of resistance and the golden, gleaming sun of the Nexus orbit and the violence promised to those who resist. They stand on opposite ground and in any other circumstance, indifference would have proven a different, bloodier result. </p><p>“I could’ve…” And Ryder’s whiskey eyes squeeze as he presses his thumb and finger into them like to put pressure on an aching phantom pain. I could’ve killed you, it resounds out into the open air of the sky, unsaid but heard. </p><p>Reyes doesn’t need the Pathfinder’s protection, and while Sloane could have used the old emblem of the Initiative imprinted into her soul to summon a strong ally, she was one brick wall of pride away from the war she had wanted with better stakes for her victory. Ryder could’ve easily come and caused tragedy to the Collective as he’s done with other factions of exiles just because he was asked to, just for the ability to pummel guilt into those because he’s been given the hammer to judge. If loyalties were as black and white as they were when Ryder first inherited his position, Sloane’s, albeit carved up, dented old title would have been blinding to any other sway of loyalty. </p><p>But this man could never hate Reyes Vidal, he realizes, even if it kept them both at a distance more appropriate for their alignments. Instead he will certainly come to hate the young fresh soldier who has too much blood on his hands for decisions he can’t take back. He will resent a man who followed orders without thinking of the people behind the labels, just as he can clearly see a man behind Shena, behind the Charlatan. If they had never met, if he had dismissed their first meeting, kept to his professional coolness then maybe Ryder would’ve been able to stay on the other side with Cora, been swift to reject him and the darkness of Draullir caves. He might’ve never learned Reyes’ real name, and continued to look down on the survivors who spoke out against bad policy threatening starvation, letting bullet run through intelligent men and women, even those looking to avoid war for the interest of his politicians and good publicity. </p><p>“I’ve known what and who you are this entire time. And now you know me. You know who I really am.”</p><p>Pain erupts in those hazel eyes, and Ryder runs his hand back up through his hair, breathing out. How can you absolve me as easily as that? How can you accept me, the brutal killer of men just like you? </p><p>“Pathfinder!” A roar echoes into the cave, startling him and he whirls around, rising off the rock in immediate response. </p><p>There are booming footsteps approaching, pounding of a heavy Krogan in a hurry. “Ryder!” Drack calls, their time coming to a close, emergency inescapable, his burden to carry. He looks to Reyes, a sudden youth to his affliction, a young man just following orders like following the footsteps of a successful strong-willed father when he was just a boy suddenly finding it is no longer enough of a path forward. He’s never questioned whether it was all leading to where he himself wanted to go, until now. </p><p>“I have to go.” Ryder says, Drack coming through the angled tunnels with a raging purpose, still yelling. </p><p>“I’ll make sure you have clearance for immediate departure.” </p><p>He acknowledges the favor, giving one last long glance before stepping from their privacy back into the throngs of people and small, heavy wheeled vehicles and back into his role with the Charlatan’s gaze following his retreating form, black, shimmering armor distinct in the angles of darkness of the kingdom of shadow. </p><p>The Nomad pulls out of the entrance to the caves like a bat out of hell taking both the Pathfinder and the lieutenant with it, kicking up dirt and Reyes returns to the entrance of the cave where Radwan stands, watching the Collective descend on the Port from their base, transporters following one after the other. Low flying ships rise, burning air, and Radwan lifts the casing for the bullet that brought Sloane Kelly, acclaimed victor of the Port, to her knees. It glows in the melding light of the sun, and he says, “Civil war may still break out.”</p><p>“By her loyalists?” Reyes gives the scene a long, and welcoming space in his memory. The painstakingly slow process of procuring the credits and manpower for unity stable enough to resist claims of easier, quicker wealth has proven even labeled anarchists and criminals align with solidarity and a name to take pride in. “They’ll be disorganized and unprepared but if they want to sacrifice their lives for an already dead warlord it’s no loss to the Collective.” </p><p>Radwan pockets the casing, nods to the cave, “Will has a ride ready.”</p><p>In the journey to the Port, the Charlatan clears the Tempest for takeoff, the only ship allowed leave and before they even see the arching opening to the Slums, the Pathfinder’s ship has shot out into the black of space with lightning speed. Makerix confirms that by the key in Davidson’s locker, they have Krid locked in the back of the containment vehicle prepared and are ready to drive him back to base for questioning, the Krogan spitting on all things non-Outcast, threatening to blow the entire Port up to find Sloane Kelly whether alive or dead. His extremist mentality only goads the fire, fuel ready to be thrown onto budding flame for an explosive reaction but with his voice smothered, having been ambushed upon his belated entry to the Outcast base when hearing Sloane ready her ship for departure, there is only mass confusion and soldiers turning to other soldiers for direction. All communication top down is radio silence, Kaetus in the med bay, unconscious, Krid unavailable and Sloane permanently voiceless to the dismantling of her paralyzed realm still frozen at her point of entry, unwilling to change past her last victory. </p><p>The warden, held at gunpoint, has little choice but to allow all Collective vehicles entry, gaze sharp as shattered glass as he eyes all the agents positioned in his office, some wearing uniform thought Outcast. All the undercover spies revel in pulling their symbolic masks off, heart racing at their performances thought real and draw their Outcast assigned guns on fellow soldiers, putting them and the entire association on its knees. </p><p> Makerix hijacks the speakers for the market and begins an announcement, her voice strong, projecting across the buildings, going deep into the alleyways, not a person nor Angara not listening. </p><p>&gt;SLOANE KELLY, LEADER OF THE OUTCAST IS DEAD. ALL AUTHORITY ON THE PORT IS NOW UNDER COLLECTIVE JURISDICTION.&lt;</p><p>Panic erupts, demands shouted for proof, disbelief rampant for soldiers who were just recently celebrating their power and label. Doors lock down, the Charlatan having informed representatives of the codes necessary to hack the base figured the day of the party and weapon chambers are sealed, preventing guards from drawing anymore firepower. </p><p>&gt;SURRENDER NOW OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES.&lt; </p><p>Outcast men and women kneel in the marketplace, hands behind their bowed heads, willing to endure the public exposure of their fallen statis if they live another day. Many are new deserters, wearing a brand for a bed to sleep in at night and ego strength. Only those who fought alongside Sloane when the Kett were clawing at the entrance to the slums are vicious to change, denying her mortality and throwing fists, fights exploding alive. </p><p>Batus’ security team floods up through the dock entrance, guns in place, a line of trained units and knock down brawlers, pushing them into circles, all barrels trained on vital organs, promising a quick death if even one more snarl goes further than facials. Chug is arrested, cuffs weighing him down as he bellows for Krid, gut wrenching shock making his already nasally voice pitch in emotion. </p><p>Reyes walks through the chaos being contained, grunts loud from men being knocked back in warning with boots, and the smothering of the rebellious, arrogant Outcast mindset. When they were camped out on the bare dirt roads, makeshift tents blocking out acidic rain and sharp whiskey shared in canteens to low chuckling, there was strength in their fearlessness which had been stamped into their nerves on the Nexus alongside Sloane who stepped through flame and death to Kadara. But now evolution is necessary. The Nexus has sealed up the tragedy, rebuilt the broken and awoken new faces for a change of narrative. Even if the city has an ancient culture, the Charlatan can see change ready to blanket the Port. </p><p>He stands in the emptied throne room, Sloane’s seat shrouded in shadows and the lingering phantom of her presence like the warmth left over after the body has already left. The Charlatan, the many faces of a thousand ideas, an ever-rotating mirror has no need for a throne. He will give this space back to the Angara, along with a large portion of the Outcast base, rooms meant for prayer and togetherness hallowed out for political pretend ready to be repurposed once more. </p><p>He is the first to Sloane’s personal quarters, the bare and brutal aesthetic consistent even in her privacy. A bed big enough for two, dark sheets and ripped apart, modded weapons scattered over every surface, something akin to a hobby and bottles of finished liquor kicked out of the way for feet. There are no pictures, nothing remotely telling of anything cherished but there is her monitor, flashing with unread messages and he approaches it, ready to gain further advantage by secrets at a high price. Drawing out the chair, he sits, and begins by connecting his omni-tool to the wireless security of her account. </p><p>Several command boxes open up, letting him bypass the passwords and recognition walls before he is allowed into her emails, files and lists of official documents. Downloading the bulk of her digital trace, he flips through emails, confirms her connections to Spender and the unread messages waiting for her from the man asking if she is preparing her advance on the Nexus yet and revealing his mildly insulting means to invoke action from those he believes below him. His participation in the underhanded attack on the colony’s future is evident in his messages and his lack of concern revealing himself as a double agent proves he has a security net for if his contacts decide to try to expose him through written word. Even Aroane’s name is a red beacon of criminal intention but for the months spent by William Spender without repercussion can only compound his smug trust in his own intelligence and invincibility. </p><p>Even lacking Sloane gunning down innocents with her Outcast army, Spender is risking population necessary against the Kett among other hostilities and if successful will permanently damage Nexus and New Tuchanka’s relationship. Reyes wonders what has him so sure he will not be tried for his crimes. </p><p>Standing up, data collected, he gives the room one more glance around, but nothing catches his eye and he leaves a bedroom that no longer even holds the lingering scent of the person it once gave refuge to. </p><p>Structure fractured, it only takes hours to dismantle the entire guard system and fold in the overarching tent of Outcast presence. Those arrested, determined to stand their ground, burn the emblem into their chest, are escorted by armed security into the badlands and effectively turned scavengers, the bare minimum for supplies tossed alongside their bruised mouths and knees. Sloane Kelly’s body is moved into a cooling container, placed under special watch in the base by Lynx’s most reliable Asari, waiting for ceremony to put her to rest finally. Organization crafted by relentless attention to detail smooths all angles of the transition and Angara come out of their places of residence, up from the slums to look on in hushed anticipation. </p><p>The Charlatan awards permission to Alejandro and his team to repaint and repurpose Sloane Kelly’s blood red ship, begin the process of labeling their movement for the public and to present the Collective as something to be taken seriously, another road to a fresh start in Andromeda, one with just as valid a presence as the Initiative. A uniform, one to be put on and taken off, an emblem, a marking for ships affording the check-in process. If he can take the Port, he can claim space elsewhere. And if they can afford a mindset, they are just as entitled to resources and diplomacy the Nexus wasn’t going to give to anyone else at first. The Collective’s version of politics, Reyes watches Collective pull down Outcast banners, tear down signs once neon but now dark and cracked with disregard and settles back against his and Keema’s counter, will not be so ignorant to polish and semantics. He will challenge the system that made Sloane Kelly and prove that in reality it is the Collective and the Nexus that are two sides to one coin. They need him and he will prove that. </p><p>The Tempest lands on Elaaden in the coming of night making record time thanks to their pilot and team Pathfinder are quick into the colony for a briefing in the endless daylight of the planet. Keema stands in Reyes’ slums office, the small even mildly nostalgic room where he began and unlike her usual chilled, analytical demeanor, she is brimming with positivity, and optimism. </p><p>“The Resistance is willing to formerly acknowledge the Collective once I stand at the forefront of the group. Evfra says he can afford to send us official Angara soldiers and a diplomatic advisor for contact to Aya and Havarl which will just as likely open their ears to talk of trade.”</p><p>“We are still a faction of mostly Milky Way exiles. There is bound to be resistance.” Reyes replies, sending a messenger to Dr. Nakamoto to welcome him out of the slums and into a formalized position in the inherited med bay on the Port. </p><p>“Of course,” Keema acknowledges his point, giving it due reflection before saying, “Evfra’s word will secure many Angara doubts though. He does not make decisions based in the Nexus mindset. The concept of exile is hardly the same between us. Or rather, it is the criminal status we don’t share.” </p><p>Leaning back in his chair, Reyes glances to the screen flickering updates from agents out on other worlds, but sees no change on the Pathfinder nor anything new on Spender. </p><p>“Is this not a victory to you, Vidal?” She asks genuinely, watching him. </p><p>He turns off the monitors, stands and says, “One of our greatest yet.” Expert in managing eyes that reflect the soul, he keeps pained whiskey eyes for only himself, refusing even the briefest entry into his private thoughts, “I’m going to need a bigger office.” He comments, walking her out and her amused smile is sincere, like their friendship that at one point seemed no more than a business associate. </p><p>Keema is announced the face of the Collective to the Port, and she welcomes Angara to the newly acquired base, many bringing small gifts, foods and wines and burnable sands to clean the air and purify the space. Reyes watches from their booth, sees her stand proudly at the entrance, ushering her people from the streets of their own planet to their righteous claim to old culture. Doshi Ge is led by several younger Angara, hands on hands and she gazes up at the Outcast base reclaimed like a gift from the Gods, basking in moonlight like a kiss from a long-lost lover. </p><p>Late in the night, while the doctor is still moving his equipment out of his makeshift container and Outcast banners burn, crisp embers fluttering at the stars, Collective agents drink at Kralla’s Song with a thirst from a hard day’s work and word of a mission arises on small channels from Elaaden. Morda is sending a starship out into orbit in direction of one of Elaaden’s moons. There are plenty of pirate hideouts in the stars of Andromeda, some obvious, in plain sight and others secret but orbiting moons are a typical place for old Angaran architecture and a place to conceal valuables. The official report says the ship is just another transport but with insider knowledge it is clear the ship carries a team ready for confrontation. They are looking for Aroane and his stolen containers. </p><p>Static feeds back when Reyes’ tests the ships communication line, incognito refusing to make the device active and before he resigns himself to waiting, he thinks there must be a system for security installed within the hideout still working. Several lesser quality video feeds pop up on his screen and he grabs a signal to an open communications line. </p><p>“What on earth were you thinking agreeing to this deal? Spender’s basically shooting your kneecaps before he sics the hounds on you.”</p><p>“Bryant, would you lighten up? Once we get this container open and toss that idiot scientist off one of the many cliffs on this moonyard, we’ll be out of tracking range in no time. Just a small miscalculation.”</p><p>“I’ve been fine storing space rock for you, Aroane, but you’re asking to meet the Pathfinder and we both know how that goes.”</p><p>Aroane chuckles, humming in thought. “Well, maybe the <em>Pathfinder</em> will be unlucky to meet <em>us.</em>” </p><p>Bryant mutters half under his breath, “Crazy son of a bitch.” And he logs off the comms. </p><p>The videos are mostly hazy, half lit images of abandoned machinery and walkways partially crumbled from time and lack of care. Rain droplets blur the camera lens, a constant drizzle keeping the faint gravitational space dull with low clouds and humidity, making the brittle metals of a once great moonyard dangerous and unpredictable. Already deformed looming walls stand like a shadowed forest in the distance but eventually Reyes finds an angle that shows signs of life, men walking slowly, pointing fingers and motioning machinery closer. A large rectangular container sits in waiting, half dented at the door but still sealed shut and glancing across the faces, Reyes sees Aroane, scarred face discernable in the light of a datapad. His swept back hair is shining in the moisture, insulated sewn in scarf tight around his neck to keep him warm. He grins, obviously listening the man close by talking to him and nods to the container. </p><p>The credits must be worth the efforts. </p><p>Armed accomplices walk long stretches of paneled metal, slow, calm, waiting for either lift off or a distraction to make itself known in the yawning silence of centuries of solitude. None of them venture too far from the portable lights of their assignment, the reverberating creaking and swaying, rusted towers eerie, ghosts of a moment long gone. </p><p>Crux’s name suddenly jumps onto the screen, calling the Charlatan’s line and Reyes considers ignoring it but thinks he’ll hear more if he does and clicks the line open, listening first. </p><p>“Vidal.” She says, testing him. </p><p>“The one and only.” </p><p>A moment of contemplation fades conversation, Crux reorganizing her memories to hold this crucial detail of his presence; his unwavering loyalty to the group despite saying he was just as much a free agent as a Collective one, his consistent presence at the base even when his information brokering didn’t call him out to Draullir and his unshakeable two-step ahead wit that annoyed Lynx so much are all far more worthy of reputation knowing his various identities. No longer is examination trying to dissect selfish motive, the financial gain around the corner for one smuggler with a cunning mouth but she can see the double-edged sword as well if he favored reputable status over performance. </p><p>She breathes out and says, “It’s been a long road to here, hasn’t it?” Whether she believes he’s played a role too well, an actor to deflect attention, or thinks he is multifaceted enough, she knows of the credibility of her Charlatan and can’t find the teasing words she might have once said when she thought of him as just Reyes Vidal. “I look forward to my office in the new base.” But she will always keep her dry humor and he quirks a smile.</p><p>“One with a view, I suspect.”</p><p>“You <em>do</em> listen.”</p><p>“I’m always listening.”</p><p>This holds immeasurable weight and after a moment she says, “Krid is in containment, ready for interrogation.” A report to a respected superior, she waits for his decision. </p><p>On the screen of the moonyard’s landing pad a ship, lights dim and shrouded in darkness, slowly lowers itself to dock. It settles its weight, then the door glides open with a smooth, slow consideration to noise. A Krogan sways out, heavy on his first step down and then a glowing red set of black armor follows alongside a pearly white and a swift, small shadow. </p><p>“I trust you and Batus have the Krogan handled.” </p><p>“Understood. I’ll send the report as soon as we are finished.” She disconnects and Reyes follows the Pathfinder as he walks beneath the curving bones of what once was an overhead glass roof to deflect rain. Drack is up front, following the walls and the various fallen pieces of large debris so not to be out in the open in case of hostile fire. Reyes opens his omni-tool, connects to Ryder’s and lets the voices feed in. </p><p>“Vorn’s signal is definitely getting stronger. Once we get within range, we’ll be able to make contact and make sure he’s alive.” A Krogan soldier states, one of Morda’s, and looks up to the old mercenary who pounds his fist on a nearby slab of metal wall fallen, crumpling it and he has to yank his fist back out of the hole with a jerk. </p><p>“He better be alive!” Drack snarls, “Because if he’s dead, I’m going to kill him!” </p><p>Cora, across the open exposed walkway hidden behind another old container long left for rust comments, “I thought we were trying to sneak in?” And Peebee chuckles to the woman’s rare humor, gun already drawn and in hand. </p><p>At her shoulder, the Pathfinder crouches silently, helmet scattered with raindrops. </p><p>Aroane’s comms open quickly and a guard announces with a hiss, “Shit! The Pathfinder team! We’ve been found!”</p><p>But their leader, voice as smooth as honey, says, “We’ve almost got the container open. Give the man a distraction. We’re all about to be half a million credits richer.” </p><p>Bryant jumps onto the comms, “Keep them back! Don’t let them close!”</p><p>“Exactly, Bryant. Get invested.” </p><p>Several warning shots ping off the metal in the open and Drack cracks his knuckles, grinning, “Guess we don’t have to worry about sneaking in anymore.”</p><p>Cora’s eye roll can be felt but she pulls her weapon free and says, “After you.”</p><p>“Age before beauty, got it.” The Krogan chortles and roars as he rises with surprising fluidity, rushing into the open with his battle cry still bouncing deeper and deeper into the moonyard like a terrifying game of telephone. He barrels into the blockades created to shoot over and tumbles several guards, their guns clattering from their hands and the Krogan bellows into the sky with a victorious lilt, his hand crushing the body of one rifle easily. </p><p>Stairs lead upward to higher walkways, to catwalks and windows without glass. But there is clear indication, lights and footprints that trail back to the smuggling function, and as guards of the moonyard begin to flutter through the darkness, a shot rips past Cora’s shoulder from above, the red light of a sniper from higher above indicating forward is not the only direction telling of danger. </p><p>Saboteur Angara step out from cover, hands rising to siphon shields, knocking Drack back a few steps by disabling his suit momentarily and he grits his teeth to the harshness of exposure. The Krogan soldier pulls a grenade attached to a steel wire and spins, gaining momentum and then hurls the grenade with precision, a strong hammer throw that explodes on impact, knocking the saboteur roughly through a rusted wall. Cora kneels, shooting shots to distract the sniper and while she has the man ducking for cover, Ryder takes a running start and propels himself onto the catwalk with one strong boost from his jump jet. He lifts himself up, crouching just under the open window, and Cora stops shooting to give the enemy a false sense of security so when he peeks around the corner, Ryder’s hand grabs him with a startling accuracy. He pulls the man through the window and raises a fist, punching one then twice till the man’s lifted hands go limp and then he lowers him to the small stretch of metal before looking below to his team slowly managing their way forward and drops down, forgoing stairs for his suit which absorbs impact. The Krogan’s shotgun has taken several men out of action, their blood the color of rust on the metals. </p><p>Cora glances to him when he joins her but they find new positions to take cover in, Drack reloading his shield before punching the floor with direction, exploding panels downward, shattering a quickly growing hole towards several soldiers hidden behind a heavy crate that creaks dangerously before tumbling into the dark pit of abyss below, revealing three humans pulling each other away from a fall that will definitely kill on impact, if they don’t just fall forever. </p><p>“This moonyard doesn’t need help falling apart, Drack!” Peebee calls to him, and the Krogan smirks, lopsided and replies, “Just avoid the holes and you’ll be fine, kid.” </p><p>The Krogan soldier shoots a concussive blast around the corner of a concrete block, breaking the hold one soldier has on another and his startled yell echoes upward out of the darkness for a long burst until it fades to nothing. This has the other men running, calling to the other Angara who glances to them, before following with long strides, and they retreat further into the yard, outnumbered and well aware of a losing streak the universe has with the Pathfinder team. Only Reyes might hear it but Ryder lets loose a breath he was holding. </p><p>“They’re retreating!” Drack calls, and he nods everyone forward, his borrowed Krogan glancing into the hole still growing slowly with an impressed nod. They follow the corner, seeing the men knocking lights off the edges, hoping to deter their pursuers if even just a moment with the cover of darkness. </p><p>Aroane flips on his mic, “Bryant, what do you pay these guys?”</p><p>“We aren’t really equipped to handle the top soldiers in the galaxy, Aroane,” The super snaps, “We’re just here to protect the moonyard.” </p><p>Clicking his tongue, the smuggler curtly responds, “Good thing I’m well prepared, hm?”</p><p>Knowing well of the slender pathways, the slim passages and places to duck, the Pathfinder team sees the moonyard guards in the distance, shadows against the faintest lights, small to the grandness of the moon. Ryder pushes a thick cord of old wiring up and out of the way of their heads, letting everyone pass, and they watch their footing, panels creaking ominously to Drack and the Krogan soldier’s weight. </p><p>Maybe at one point these places were hallways with proper walls, or paths with railings but now they are hazards to slip off, slick with perpetual rain water with nothing to grab onto to save a tumble. Any sign of Angaran wealth is faded, none of the carefully washed Andromeda marble for craft or rounded curves of soft architecture built like spirals atop one another. This is a skeleton, bones sharp with abandonment. </p><p>Reyes’ view by the cameras loses the team, but he follows their steps by audio and conversation. The crunch of panels half rotted out, the grinding of metal on metal as they force obstacles out of their way, fallen ceiling pieces with dead wiring and tossed aside containers from old smuggling jobs. </p><p>“This is my first moonyard visit.” Peebee comments, “A little dreary.”</p><p>“Not all of ‘em are this rainy.” The Krogan speaks up, “On one of the other Elaaden moons the sky looks pink.” </p><p>“And they couldn’t pick that one?” She kicks a low sitting, arched metal pole off the side, her voice catching the effort. </p><p>“Pink skies don’t really scream ‘pirate hideout.’” Cora offers and Peebee snorts in amusement, and says, “You know, you’re getting better at the whole ‘telling a joke’ thing. Good one.” </p><p>A sickening crack echoes and Peebee startles, “Woah!” At the same time, Drack grunts loudly, voice clear with slight strain, “Didn’t I tell you to avoid the holes?” He asks, the sound of armor on armor, “You good?”</p><p>“I’m good.” Ryder responds, but he sounds hallow. </p><p>“Would’ve been one hell of a fall, Ryder.” Peebee says, saving him the silence of assessment that Reyes knows would’ve followed. They move forward, wind rushing into the mic, snaking in and out of tunneled areas with the carelessness and freedom only nature can access. </p><p>The Krogan soldier, sudden, half hushed and excited, announces, “I’ve got a signal! We can connect to Vorn’s omni-tool!” He quickly dials, and within the same second, all their footsteps slowed for the moment of truth, the line opens with a resounding bang that has Peebee curse. </p><p>“Thank the stars!” Vorn’s voice finally comes through, another bang rattling against metal, reverberating in the smaller space he currently resides. </p><p>“Thank Morda.” Drack mutters and Vorn chuckles weakly, “If I get the chance, I’ll risk seeing Morda after this.”</p><p>“Give us a status update, Vorn.” The soldier requests, the pounding in the open comms likely Aroane’s hired muscle trying to fold in the Krogan metal to pop a hole and get inside. </p><p>“The reinforced double casing for the seed vaults was a good idea, for one. They’ve separated this container from the transport though, probably to make sure I don’t hide anywhere else. But I can see the walls are starting to bend. It won’t be long..” He trails off, the idea settling poorly. “A-anyways, they haven’t moved the transporter from the other deck, waiting to make sure they won’t be tracked after they confirm the contents of this container.” </p><p>“So the seed vault with you is safe.” Drack breathes, a place further than relief, an emotion bigger than one Krogan, but an entire race of Krogan yet to come, security felt in generations, “We’re coming your way so don’t get any funny ideas!”</p><p>Vorn swallows audibly, finally the space to show feeling, hours spent alone, waiting for proof he wasn’t a martyr ready to die protecting his very work and families from the future. “Right.” He says, clipped but he can’t help but rush out, “If you don’t rescue me in time, could you send Kesh my love?”</p><p>“We’re going to make it in time- wait, what did you just say?” Drack, genuinely caught off guard actually is left speechless a moment and Vorn takes the opportunity to click off his comms to save himself the guttural threat that bursts forth after the Krogan digests what Vorn just confessed. </p><p>“I’m going to rescue him then I’m gunna kill him!”</p><p>“That’s the second time you’ve promised to kill him.” Peebee points out, “If we get to three times, I might actually get worried.”</p><p>“Vorn should be the one worried!” Drack roars, “Kids these days got no damn manners! Where the hell’s my proper clan traditions!?” </p><p>He snarls, metal shatters, sending shards and random chunks of the lodged blockade into the air and startling several waiting guards on the other side. They turn their guns immediately to the source, gunfire instant, the angle finally one with a camera fixated above. Metal punctures, and only when a smoking grenade rolls to the guards feet do they pause and stumble back, crying out in the blast, before the rush of two Krogan tramples their defenses. </p><p>Peebee rolls out of the smoke, gun trained on a third man waiting by the distant entrance to an enclosed space and catches him off guard with a quick headshot, before she sweeps her free arm to yank another guard off his feet and into the air with purpled force, tossing him off the edge with ease. </p><p>When a sudden guard swings an energy blade down, startling the Asari, her arm coming up to protect herself, Ryder blocks the cut with his own gleaming orange, shielding her with both his swift presence and body, shoulders raised, and he pushes the attacker back with sheer force behind his blade. She watches, eyes wide, but Ryder doesn’t cut him down, merely kicks him back, vanishing his omni-blade, and when the guard thinks he has the advantage, the Pathfinder lets him raise the blade for another attack and grabs his wrist with precision. </p><p> A cracking headbutt snaps the man’s head back and he folds beneath Ryder’s hold, drooping, before he’s dropped to the metal flooring, all limbs. Peebee takes Ryder’s hand to stand, but her brow is drawn slightly. She isn’t one for questions and is as against asking the personal as being asked but her eyes follow her leader’s back when he turns with a seriousness known to a confidant aware of something beneath the surface. </p><p>“15,000 for anyone who hits someone on the Pathfinder team!” Aroane announces when they enter the old, emptied hanger, soldiers and hired men alike waiting for their chance to earn credits atop their contract. The smuggler is standing above on the second level, watching from the railing with datapad in hand and earpiece on for extra precaution. Confidence still fully intact, he even gives the Pathfinder a quick finger wave before falling back, still buying time in order to pummel Vorn and take the seed vault as requested. </p><p>Gunfire erupts, pinging off the walls and shields for good shots but there is trained and valued experience amongst those who stand beside Ryder. Fear of a bullet might have existed at one point, the closest moment long ago in the jungles of a distant memory but now they are hyper aware of the limits of their shields and the timing to take out enemies. Giving the number a quick glance, Ryder suddenly tears off a wall panel, and Reyes can just see those familiar back muscles, sprinkled with freckles, working to their limits, as he hurls it with a good curve, smacking one guard with expert exactness, chopping him in the throat and tossing him onto his back. </p><p>It makes the mercenary bark a laugh as loads a cannon, jerking the motion through, uncaring for the bullets dinging off his shields, even when one lodges in his helmet, he doesn’t flinch, “Now you’re just showing off.” He lets the flak cannon sizzle and then burst forward, men jumping to dodge the shell, and taking immediate damage from the shrapnel exploding from the impact. Cora knocks a guard down with a blast of nova, her gun now at close range and she shoots through his armor with ease, leg kicking back, flexible with daily training, striking a man’s head first with her boot then to a cargo bin with a resounding noise. She stands above him, shooting through his last breath and spins her ammo around to reload it with ease. Peebee rounds her shoulder with a clear shot to the Angara trying to siphon her shields and benefit from a weakened defense, trading places with a quick two step. </p><p>They take to the chase, pounding up the stairs to the open deck, wind and sky fresh in the lightened clouds. The transport is across the large landing pad, engine running, but here there is hardly any rain, not even a storm cloud as obvious, the height giving them better vision and less darkness. </p><p>“Where’s the container, Aroane?” Drack demands from over the sound of the roaring ship and the man, grinning from his position of decided superiority claims compliment in the aggression, “So you know who I am.” He raises his arm, and the door to the transport flies open, guards flooding out, armed and ready to shoot. “30,000 for a Pathfinder team member!” He shouts, throwing his arm down as if the entire situation is merely a horse race to the finish and not a battle against extinction and cruel intention. Gunfire makes the Krogan soldier duck, a weakened tower for support to long lost higher levels creaking horrifically as a call to its falling. Swinging wildly, it rotates, barely missing the platform and tumbles down into the darkness but it speaks to the extent the moonyard is becoming unstable. The distraction works well for the oncoming soldiers who toss down red, gleaming barricades for protection to shoot over. Like an earthquake, a rumble shivers the metal beneath their feet and Ryder tosses down his own barricade, letting Peebee slide behind it, reloading with focused, nimble fingers. She glances up, watches Cora plant her foot onto the barricade for better reach and spears a man oncoming, before tossing a grenade and dropping down next to her teammate. </p><p>Ryder steps back, looking high and catches a sticking grenade ready for an unsuspecting victim and discards it off the edge before ducking a close-range side hook. The man tries to wind him with the butt of his gun, but only manages to get it snagged against Ryder’s arm and body and Drack, shooting in one long sweep with his rifle so he can proceed, yells, “Stop hesitating, Ryder!” </p><p>Peebee gives a grenade an overhead toss, glancing back at her form and chuckles when it bounces haphazardly towards Drack and he needs to kick it away with an annoyed shout, “Hey!”</p><p>“Oops!” </p><p>She leaps over the barricade, finding her chance in the curling black smoke of her bomb and with a riveting shockwave, she crumbles two soldiers and executes them with equal consecutive shots. Elbow out, she catches the nose of another woman, jerking her head back, and breaking her shields by another lifting shockwave, she hurtles the woman back, armor screeching on the metal panels. </p><p>A bell begins ringing, then the sigh of machinery whistles through the air. It catches everyone’s attention, two white bodied hydras descending from a nearby platform just above their current position landing on their dock with two massive jolts. Glowing red with activity, they separate, guarding the transport, each its own goliath to tumble. </p><p>Araone’s voice can be heard laughing like he has a winning horse, “50,000 for anyone who defeats the Pathfinder, an extra 20,000 if he’s alive!” And their turrets activate with a distinct clicking, everyone suddenly startling out of slow motion.</p><p>“Move!” Peebee shouts, jumping just out of the hellstorm of bullets that erupt in a charring line down the platform. She rolls behind a cargo bin, pressing her back close and breathes a moment, nerves buzzing. Drack, unfazed, loads a shell, letting the red light of the hydra’s target settle on him as he grunts, “Come get it big guy.” And he triggers the flack cannon, shell shooting out and lodging blemishes into the hydra’s limbs, forcing it out of alignment. </p><p>Seeing her opportunity, Cora runs, hard, full sprint, and raises a hand to the Krogan soldier who hurls an inactivated grenade still attached to the metal wire to her. Pivoting, she turns with the grenade in hand and they wrap the wire around its legs before setting the grenade live. </p><p>Explosion rushing smoke, the hydra rocks, left leg gutted with wire and blackened hardware, but the laser searches through the chaos, waiting to unleash a volley of missiles. Across the dock the transport kicks up its second engine, preparing flight if a quick escape becomes their last resort. </p><p>Ryder, still pushing back soldiers approaching feels the tickle of instinct and, turning over his shoulder, sees the smashing arm of a hydra ready to crush him beneath its mass, dark shadow enveloping him as he leaps out of the way, the sheer impact tumbling panels off the dock and into the shadow of depth. Ryder rolls, sliding on his knee and heel, turning to face the looming threat but not drawing his weapon. </p><p>He dodges a wide sweep from one of the arms, bending even lower to the ground but he doesn’t expect the chain gun to rotate rapidly into a claw and slams metal, one arm trapped as it grips him, crunching the floor as it tightens. He grunts when it lifts him up, and then, with Ryder clearly captured, the hydra begins to squeeze, forcing his suit to resist, begging to find its limitations or splinter beneath the pressure. First it takes away the Pathfinder’s breath then it breaks his concentration and he lets out a yell of pain, throwing his head back as it tests the limits of his own bones. </p><p>“Ryder!” </p><p>Cora tries to move around the second hydra but even damaged, unable to walk, it lets off a vicious spit of bullets in a wide circle around itself and stops her from leaving her cover. Peebee glides beneath the arm, dropping to a knee to get the aim and, with one eye closed for exactness, she shoots up into the joint, hoping to structurally damage the arm enough to loosen its hold. </p><p>The shot jolts, electricity buzzing for a brief spark and Drack booms, “Look out!” Letting Peebee jump out of the way so he can shoot a concussive shot to break the arm, shattering the already weakening joint and let Ryder free, dropping him and the entire forearm. Heavy with the still locked claw, Ryder begins to yank the vice off his body, fingers pressing metal, breath sharp, still difficult.</p><p>Peebee smacks several sticky grenades to the looming, searching hydra, it rumbling, wires firing with electricity, lasers moving swiftly to find her body heat, her motion and pin her with fire and rage. It turns away, knowing to collect its rewards, it is crucial to not deem the other Tempest soldiers irrelevant. A cargo bin explodes as a missile barely misses Peebee in her first hiding place. </p><p>Crawling free, Ryder gasps, but he doesn’t have time to recover, a soldier standing over him, gun aimed to wound but not to kill. The trigger clicking, Ryder kicks the hand with the finger curled and the shot explodes into the metal just to the side of his hip. He moves his head just out of the way of a boot, another man ready to kick a concussion into him and their corner of the dock ripples. Using a leg, he sweeps the first man’s feet out from beneath him, tumbling him heavily and the ground cracks, panels shifting. The barrel of a gun meeting him, he punches a kneecap and then rolls to his feet, stepping away from the jab of an omni-blade. </p><p>“Draw your weapon, Ryder!” Drack shouts, “What the hell are you doing?” </p><p> He glances back instead, over the edge into nothingness, sees the abyss and looks to the two men approaching, the third pushing himself up off the ground. The hydra with one arm leaps off the dock and with one final impact decides the fate of the stability beneath both Ryder and the men around him, the panels falling loose and he jerks, hand flying out to grab a ledge, his teammates watching in horror as their leader plummets from the dock and into the darkness of the moonyard.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Wealth Earned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As one man rises to power, others must fall.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Water drips, distant, then close, a rumbling buzzing in the mic. Explosions rip into the air from above, tunneled, a war continuing on, unstoppable, riches and hope on the line. Reyes waits, listening carefully for any indication Ryder is still alive and still attached to his omni-tool, the fall clattering and cracking, the Pathfinder’s grunts distinct, echoing in his mind over and over, true pain and shock absorbed into heavy silence amongst the moonyard’s sounds. His heart is in his throat, the video forever capturing the first uncertain step into fallen floor and a hand jerking for leverage and finding none, the ever-mighty Pathfinder suddenly small, quickly reliving falling and not knowing what awaits him at the bottom. </p>
<p>How far did he fall? Will he be able to walk if he can even rise to his feet? </p>
<p>SAM speaks, trying to alert any response, “Pathfinder. Please wake up.” But there is nothing except surrounding noise, splashes of water, vague rumbling and clattering of metal panels dropping from the sky. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>Sacrifice made to answer the calls of necessary justice, moral struggle condemns the soldier, hesitation the murder of man. Resentment isn’t quick to find place on Reyes Vidal’s plate, much tastier things available to stake claim on and so their final words spoken heed no hesitation to invite Ryder back to Draullir. Many men do terrible things without regret and he isn’t afraid to be one of them. But Ryder isn’t one of those men. Charming a high-class man from privilege wasn’t supposed to leave him so attached but if Ryder were to die here, among his guilt and the crumpled past of culture long altered, then even Reyes would fight the misplaced grip of justice on him. A fallen hero beneath a fallen society. </p>
<p>Faintly a whisper speaks to him, a breath of life, constant, without labor and Reyes breaks the wall created by months and months of careful infiltration thought to be an objective boundary impassable. </p>
<p>“Ryder.”</p>
<p>He’s met with silence, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing, “Ryder. Ryder.”</p>
<p>SAM asks, “Mr. Vidal?” His false, camouflaged signal now obvious, easily traceable. </p>
<p>He uses the screen to flash as if Ryder had an important message in hopes to alert the mind behind injury. </p>
<p>Gravel crackles beneath movement and the breath catches, consciousness settling back in like a butterfly to a familiar flower. “Reyes…?” Ryder questions, words thick, dreamlike, confusion evident but there is flattery at even the most inopportune moments; His voice is recognized no matter the situation. He sucks in sharply, bruises and the fall coming back swiftly. Armor on metal and concrete, Ryder is probably drawing his limbs back to himself, collecting his body after being tossed out. </p>
<p>“Are you hurt?”</p>
<p>Effort hinged by throbbing, immediate protest from his own body pushed to its limits, Ryder’s voice catches, the process of checking mobility critical even if strikingly painful. Scraping to unsteady steps, Ryder answers him with a question, proving reason intact, “How are you on this line?” </p>
<p>Reyes commends him for getting to the point. He doesn’t answer, the inquiry less about the technical and more about the reasoning. Relief is present even then, despite the circumstances for his emotional reaction. He knows Ryder will be able to put the pieces together, and some twisted part of him is ready for the man to see him at every angle, the entirety of his deceit and misrepresentation. He is not a golden charity built on service, and even if Ryder felt guilt for his second drawing her weapon on him, there is good reason exiles are being labeled as dangerous. He is no different, a man from the heaviest shadow, well versed in political corruption, greed masked with appropriate lingo and death earned for risk. Ryder may regret killing intelligent men and women but some would eat him alive if given the chance, and Reyes can see the difference between those looking for a path out of despair and those altered and ready to tear flesh from bone for personal gain. He too has wanted to devour Ryder many times.</p>
<p>A stumble, Ryder clangs against metal, heavy footed, dizzy, “When you fixed my omni-tool..” </p>
<p>“We should focus on getting you out of this situation first.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s voice sharpens, “Don’t change the subject.”  </p>
<p>Well-being still at risk, Reyes says, “Turn on your body camera. Let me see what you see.” Let there be proof of your location, of everything in case of the worst. </p>
<p>“What’s stopping you from just accessing it yourself?” Ryder throws back, harsh, demanding he prove his position, his entitlement. A fight is brewing, the sensation of quick-fire regret waning with his misuses of trusts. </p>
<p>“If you insist.” And Reyes claims the fight.</p>
<p>He begins, unafraid now of being tracked, of exposing himself to the AI and from his connection to the omni-tool, he turns on the camera and then, just for a point in their conflict, shameless, he turns on the light, illuminating all the greys and muted blacks, harsh darkness evident in the narrow, wedged pathway with fallen debris and long forgotten metals of the world above. Water drips to alert it soon coming down in small floods, tiny waterfalls from the rain. This is the bottom of the moonyard and a distinct symbolic place for them so vividly altered from the rooftop under the sunset they shared just recently. </p>
<p>Ryder scoffs, a noise of disbelief, one that has him shaking his head at the blatant audacity, a white glove slap after gut punching him. He stumbles forward a few steps, but there’s still lingering weakness, a boneless sensation in his legs and he rests against the wall and says, “How long?” </p>
<p>Reyes examines a far-off turn, the walls steep and without means to grab hold and lift higher, likely this channel made for water to travel when the moonyard was actually functioning-</p>
<p>“How long?” Ryder repeats with force, cutting into his thoughts. </p>
<p>“How long what?” He avoids. </p>
<p>Slamming a fist on the wall, Ryder snaps, “Reyes!” </p>
<p>“Since the beginning.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s vision dips and he folds, same hand on the wall to steady himself. He breathes, gasping, air old and strange down below. Everything he believes in between them being placed under the bright light of interrogation, he is likely questioning if even sleeping with him was merely a means to gain an upper hand, nothing more than an exile doing business as an exile would. The silence is as threatening as his situation, but here they have an unexpected privacy, and Ryder sits with his emotions where no one can interrupt, not even his own teammates, distance and danger forcing them apart. For now they fight separate, two different battles both about survival. </p>
<p>“Guess you got everything you wanted.” Ryder finally says, the sting evident, their intimacy at stake for political benefit. </p>
<p>“What I want is peace.” Reyes says, “The Initiative doesn’t have a very forgiving outlook on exiles as you well know.”</p>
<p>Ryder doesn’t say anything, waiting for reason enough to see past betrayal of boundaries, moments thought tender now ripping apart to reveal ulterior motives underneath. </p>
<p>“The Collective, or even the common deserter doesn’t have the leniency to trust they are going to be pulled back into the circle with the Nexus even if resources become abundant.” It wasn’t personal his tone says, although it became personal. “The Collective sells information, including on what is dangerous to our mission.” Including their star soldier, and his motives. </p>
<p>“We all have do things for the causes we stand behind. Being honorable never got me anywhere, Pathfinder.” Even if being honorable got you everywhere, Ryder, it’s not the road for all men. </p>
<p>“Don’t call me that!” Ryder deflects in a heated flash, “Not here. Not right now.” Don’t put me back in that box, that game of pretend where we act as if I’m not as guilty as you are. </p>
<p>“Ryder.” Reyes says, tone softening merely by their past, by something alive between them no matter how distant their positions seem or maybe how close and how dangerous that feels to Ryder. </p>
<p>Turning his head, Reyes knows Ryder’s expression is exposed, raw and he asks, “Tell me this has all been about the title.” The final line of a bridge collapsing beneath the weight and stretch of two sides distant, Ryder begs to know they really did share something beneath their uniforms, to know he wasn’t wrong, they were seeing and being seen past their masks of employment. That he has not been told and foolish for letting darkness in and giving it key to his space. That he wasn’t the only one believing they shared a space for two men and nothing more. That even if Reyes Vidal meant to keep secrets, they weren’t deliberate for their harm.  </p>
<p>When Reyes stays quiet, he murmurs, “You used me.” And Reyes corrects him, “I used the Pathfinder.” </p>
<p>Ryder lets out a breath shakily, slowly straightening himself, leaning heavily on the wall. He steps forward, flattening his palm to the metal for better support. His camera stutters, his feet dragging, the brave and talented Pathfinder, even when thrown into the underworld, walks on, forging his path. </p>
<p>He pushes a massive, dented panel from above out of his way, slipping beneath, the corridor stretching on and on. Hot air, smoke flickers above, gliding in the cracks of sky visible and Ryder forces himself to go faster, move on legs battered and put his mind back into action-oriented thinking, leave the brittle chaos of his emotions and go back to his safe space of objectivity. </p>
<p>“SAM, I need you to give me a boost.”</p>
<p>“There is a high percentage of you having endured some kind of even minor head injury during the fall, I advise you to rethink using the emotional masking until we have had a check-up-“</p>
<p>“SAM, I’m not looking for advice.”</p>
<p>“Understood, Pathfinder. What percentage-“</p>
<p>“Don’t do this on my account, Ryder.”</p>
<p>“Haven’t you gotten everything you’ve needed from me? What else could you be looking for?” Ryder’s defenses shoot up, “You’ve got the Port, and your fill of Initiative branded secrets thanks to my indiscretion.”</p>
<p>“Hardly reason to suddenly find the Initiative uniform so comforting.”</p>
<p>“That’s my job!” </p>
<p>“I thought I was talking to just Ryder right now.”</p>
<p>A noise of genuine frustration makes it through the audio, and Ryder shoves another panel out of his way with more force than necessary. “So the only reason you even offered to fix my omni-tool was to <em>spy</em> on me?”</p>
<p>“It’s not the only reason.”</p>
<p>Ryder turns the corner, another long corridor stretching far but there seems to be hope, a pile of debris stacked haphazardly toward the ledge, a container half smashed, zigzagged in its battle against gravity and awkward slabs of metal from now destroyed buildings. </p>
<p>“This whole time you were a mole for the Collective.”</p>
<p>“And you’re a mole for the Initiative.”</p>
<p>Ryder goes silent in the sting and Reyes continues, “I’m not afraid of you, Ryder, or what you’ve done to other exiles but I am hyper aware of your affiliations. Just as you are of mine. You’ve known what I am this whole time. You’re just seeing exactly how I managed to create the Charlatan.”</p>
<p>“What, you’re going to tell me you had good intentions while you were hacking my personal information?”</p>
<p>“And the Initiative has your undying trust?”</p>
<p>“They’re at the least transparent!”</p>
<p>“You know that’s not true. Tell me what happened to Jien Garson. And where the entire project received its funding. Tell me why they lay every vital political decision on your shoulders and wait for repercussions to fall on your head.”</p>
<p>Ryder is stunned, processing for a flash, the floor shivering beneath him. A growl is beginning to grow, like if an earthquake could become wind, and he turns his head, first giving the sky an examination until he notices it’s over his shoulder, the flush of water low but fast behind him. He sees a flood, darkened, violent with objects picked up from its race and he flips back around, following SAM’s recommendation.</p>
<p>“Run, Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>He shoots off, a strong back foot propelling him forward and leaps over an angled pole, the water exploding and tall, splashing against the walls, demanding more to be sucked into its bone shattering journey. Barely outrunning the first ankle smashing wave of water, Ryder jump jets to a safer distance, quick to examine the best places for his hand and feet on the pile of awkward broken metals, knowing his one chance will not be forgiving if he fails. </p>
<p>Deafening threat follows tirelessly behind him, sucking in panels, poles and even concrete, unafraid of anything, and he jumps, hand figuring a hold, a repeat of him trying not to fall off the docks and this time succeeding. No time to celebrate the first victory, he yanks himself chest up and gets a foot in, enough leverage to give another jump jet boost meaning. He crests the high wall, dragging his body up with strong arms just in time to feel the sweep of cold, white black water rush beneath his feet and then rain wildly as it breaks through the blockage and roar onward, a relic of technology now a wild boar free to roam the land. </p>
<p>Rolling, gasping, adrenaline coursing veins, he stares up at the sky, legs dangling over the edge and gives himself a moment of recovery. The water rushes on, a river now settled but swift. Pushing up onto one arm, Ryder looks at his new surroundings, his vision expanded, no longer just a sliver of sky and sees off in the distance, the docks, and a burning hydra billowing black smoke, possibly defeated or half destroyed at the least. He rises, and looks for his means to make his way upward, cliff-like passages and not too far leaps over partial flat surfaces and thinks it possible. </p>
<p>“Why did you even reveal yourself at this point? What did you gain?” Ryder asks, knowing well Reyes is still on the line, still observing from afar, starlight flickering between them in distance. You could’ve kept quiet, kept on fooling me, his tone says. </p>
<p>I wanted to make sure you were alive. To be there if you had your final moments. To say things that won’t be said at any other time. Reyes says nothing, revealing nothing and Ryder walks on, clouds rumbling above. He gets a good, jogging start for a jump across a drop and pulls himself up into a reaching passage covered in low hanging wires and tubing, possibly a vent at one point hidden in the ceilings of a working yard. </p>
<p>“I know where the container is.” </p>
<p>Ryder ducks beneath a corner of concrete, gliding down low with flexible knees and confirms, “Are you offering me help on this rescue mission?”</p>
<p>“I am an information broker.”</p>
<p>“So you’re selling me information.” </p>
<p>“Do you want to know or not?”</p>
<p>Ryder holds his tongue a stubborn moment, unamused by being outplayed with all his frustrations at a peak but he finally says begrudgingly, “I want to know.” Discipline wins, level headed even in the worst of times and Reyes, despite himself, smirks from behind his screen. </p>
<p>“That’s what I thought. You’ll need to get out of this vent duct and get on higher ground.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad one of us is having a good time.” Ryder says rudely, but follows instructions, jump jetting up into a hole and crawling up through hardened wiring, the touch of electricity long forgotten, and manages up onto a far platform with low hanging curved metals that may once have held windows to observe the moonyard in full. They can see the fight from here, Aroane standing proudly by the transport which has begun a slow rotation of its propellers in case the entire dock falls out from beneath them, his hand holding a pole from just inside the open door for security. Cora’s head is lowered to speak into her omni-tool, hiding behind a container on fire as missiles fire wildly, exploding flooring out of the dock from the final hydra. Hired men take cover by the floating transport, blasting shots at whoever happens to step out of their cover and Drack tosses his flack cannon, out of ammo, thinking it now useless. </p>
<p>“I have to get back over there.” Ryder says, a hand on the metal, stepping to the edge, and Reyes replies, “In time. You’re close to the container. It’s not visible from where you stand but over on that higher dock where the hydras dropped down from is another place where the transport can park and the container is just within reach.”</p>
<p>Ryder turns sharply and jogs across the platform, eyeing the distance and grabs a dense tube from the ceiling. He tugs it experimentally, testing its hold, his own weight and glances to a platform lower but with better access towards the docks and then checks the angle. </p>
<p>“You’ll need a swift running start, Pathfinder.” SAM informs him, “Please try to release the tube at the highest point of your jump.”</p>
<p>“Got it.”</p>
<p>He lets the tube go, looks at it over the edge, the steep drop-off and steps back. All his time in training, beneath his father, in school, his time on the field tests fear and Ryder wins. He rushes forward, grabbing the tube with both hands and flies into the air, arching over the edge too far just to jump by himself and treads air to further his distance. The tube drops away, his arms coming out and he activates his jets to push him that final stretch, rolling at the last minute to lessen the impact. Metal panels burst out from beneath but he’s already out of reach and they tumble harmlessly behind him. </p>
<p>Standing, he breathes out and continues downward, along the sloping archways, and Reyes alerts him, “There’s ten guards along the way, including those trying to crack open the container.”</p>
<p>“Any more hydras?” Ryder asks, voice going low, checking his corners so not to taken by surprise. Even for the Pathfinder, an ambush of such a number would be a large disadvantage. Especially someone with an indecisive trigger. </p>
<p>“No, only armed criminals.”</p>
<p>“I can hear your tone.”</p>
<p>“You’re hesitating for men trying to kill you.”</p>
<p>“Well, maybe you’ve been right about the Initiative and I’m killing for the wrong reasons.”</p>
<p>“Shooting back because you’re being shot at seems a pretty good reason to me.”</p>
<p>“How can you say that when we almost shot you in Draullir?” </p>
<p>“I don’t blame you for that. Part of the trade and all.”</p>
<p>“Your nonchalance is unbelievable.”</p>
<p>“Some people are meant for hell, Ryder.”</p>
<p>Crouched behind a half open cargo bin, Ryder looks at the first few guards waiting with their guns raised and eyes distant from lack of orders. He stabilizes himself, and says, “I can’t help it now when I look at these men, I see you.”</p>
<p>“I’d commend the moment you’re able to shoot me.”</p>
<p>Ryder lets out a slight laugh, genuine against all circumstances then abruptly says, “Now wait a minute.” He realizes they’ve eased back into their space, “This doesn’t change the fact you’ve been spying on me.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never taken liberties with your privacy.”</p>
<p>“Hardly an argument on your front. Let’s discuss what privacy means.”</p>
<p>“I’d love to. But first I think you should take care of these guards.”</p>
<p>Ryder lets out a steadying breath, and then says, “Fine.” He draws his shotgun, checks his ammo, and in one swift motion, rolls over the closed part of the lid of the cargo and puts his weapon out, startling a guard but he doesn’t take the shot, instead opens his free hand and palms the guard’s face, throwing him back harshly into the wall, knocking his head and when the other guard, awake to the action, uses his gun for a chokehold, his leg is kicked out from beneath him, Ryder’s ankle catching his. Tumbling gracelessly, the Pathfinder kicks away his weapon, clearing his throat, rubbing the soreness. </p>
<p>The noise brings forth the other guards, boots on metal, so Ryder quickly unlocks his other weapon to knock a man back by concussive shot to the gut before the bullets start flying. </p>
<p>“Behind you.” Reyes warns so Ryder has enough time to react to a rifle loaded. He throws a punch, blurring the man’s vision, cracking his visor, and while taking the loosened grip on his gun and tearing it completely free, he knees his guts in, putting the man down. </p>
<p>Shields deflecting but reaching a limit, Ryder spins behind a wall, stepping around the limbs of an unconscious guard just in time to avoid the rage of a grenade. </p>
<p>Fire licks metal red hot, and while Ryder regroups a guard comes swiftly around the corner, gun aimed and ready, shooting off a blast that catches the Pathfinder too close for a shield even with his quick rotation. Blood squirts, and he gasps, a wound marking the wall, reflexes overwhelmed by technology. A second guard follows suit, punching Ryder across the face, jerking the camera and sending him back the opposite direction a step. Recovery instant, he tackles the armed assailant, arms going around his waist to hurtle him to the metal. </p>
<p>He rotates on a knee, catching a foot ready to kick him prone and yanks, slamming hip to metal, until the man below him hooks an elbow to his throat and pulls him to choke. </p>
<p>Unable to stand watching the Pathfinder, the executioner to those unfortunate enough to meet him on the wrong side of the rifle, and the man who warmed his bed so well, fall hit by hit to reluctancy and irresolution, Reyes finally speaks a long painful and awaited truth. </p>
<p>“Learn to hate me and the men like me, Ryder. Don’t you dare die on this abandoned moon lightyears away for their choices.”</p>
<p>Ryder hesitates a moment longer, gritting teeth before he activates his omni-blade and guts the guard from the side. A scream of pain paints the air with agony, his hold loosening so Ryder can roll free, yanking his shotgun out where he head-shots a man rushing for them. Coming up from his knee fluidly, he lifts his gun to steady the aim and walking straight into the hellstorm, he shoots one man down, another man down, dropping bodies like a modern grim reaper.  </p>
<p>Unforgiving, he wrestles a man forward, holding his hand on the trigger, causing him to let fire erupt around the Pathfinder and hit another guard unsuspecting shot from an allied rifle. He cries out, arms flailing, bullet making limbs loose. Ryder nestles his own barrel up beneath the man’s chin, using his shock to fire and pushes the brainless body away after the explosion of violence. </p>
<p>Blood bursts out of space suits and makeshift armor, pooling, and the final man, nervous, all angles, tries to free his machine from the container, holding a hand up to stop the Pathfinder’s assault, knowing escape unobtainable. His body knocks rough to the metal, leaving a splatter, the only present available on a criminal mission deep in space a quick death. </p>
<p>Ryder sweeps the area with efficiency, Reyes settling back into his seat. Approaching the container, Ryder calls to the Krogan inside, “Vorn! It’s the Pathfinder! Open up!” </p>
<p>The metal door clangs, cogs swirling heavily, locks unlatching and hinges separating. The door glides open, a little crooked on its dented hinges but still working despite all of Aroane’s efforts. Vorn, a Krogan with distinct yellow markings and a timid but optimistic shine to his eyes, peeks out, still holding a small pistol in case of danger. He sees the truth, Ryder standing waiting, and swoops him up in a hug, gracious and amazed, “It really is you! The Pathfinder!” He cries, squeezing him, making Ryder chuckle, and pat the Krogan on the shoulder pleasantly, feet above the ground. Several spots of blood are just below, indicative of a price paid. The pure hope inspired solidifies their stations and how vastly different their purposes have been, and Reyes knows his demand in the heat of the moment is just as much for Ryder’s safety as a confession that even across universes, he is still Reyes Vidal, criminal mastermind and change is not coming for him anytime soon. </p>
<p>When Vorn lowers Ryder back to the ground, he nods the Krogan on, “Drack needs us.” And they make their way forward, hurrying toward the dock where battle had raged. Looking down on the lower plane, they notice the bullets have stopped ringing against metal and that both hydras are merely smoldering, sad folds of melted terror transformed. Vorn murmurs, hushed, “That’s Kesh’s grandfather for ya..” Admiration evident, he looks down at Drack who has Aroane tied up by his feet, giving orders to his soldier to search the transport which is parked again, grounded by victory from the Tempest rescue mission. </p>
<p>Ryder looks on, Cora and Peebee standing by, but the Asari has a sharp eye and she sees them, and her face brightens. Even without him, his team managed, and Ryder’s relief is evident, a breath of release relaxing tensed shoulders. </p>
<p>Peebee calls up to him, arm waving, “Knew you were too hard headed to let a fall like that get you!” </p>
<p>Cora spins around, her eyes wide, shining with worry, and she spots him. His place, the home created and earned calls him back, the glorious and righteous Pathfinder who can’t be seen letting a notorious spy feed off his inclinations. </p>
<p>“Ryder, are you alright?” Cora approaches, voice going far. “We detected another signal on your line blocking us! What’s going on?” </p>
<p>Ryder stiffens, and Reyes sits in the silence, them both knowing well who they are speaking of. Vorn has already dropped off the ledge, running for Drack, “I protected the egg vault, Drack! Do you think Kesh will think of me as a hero?” </p>
<p>“Aren’t you going to tell them?” Reyes finally asks, waiting for the line to be drawn far past his overstepping and for the morals to settle in and prove his action worthy of further slander on his name. A nail in the coffin for his front as their Collective contact, he sees nothing in the future for their personal relationship once Ryder returns to the shining beacon of rights and wrongs and easy distinctions. The guilt he felt was less a personal grievance between them and more from a man of a good heart and good upbringing and they will need to go their separate ways-</p>
<p>“And put us both in that position?” Ryder says low, serious. </p>
<p>Protecting me still? Reyes thinks and yet if he had met this young man ten years prior, he would’ve… but Ryder is seeing him now and allows complication be a part of their existence. Less of a scar like a bullet wound, swift, harsh, even brutal and more of a tender bruise never recovering, he thinks he will be the fingers that press purple and hurt just right forever even if there needed to be harm to get there. “You have terrible taste in men.” He comments, because he can’t share anything more than wit, knowing either Ryder will understand him or won’t and that will decide them. </p>
<p>“The worst.” Ryder mutters genuinely, giving months and months of careful examination reason that a leniency thought impossible can even exist now with all his wrong doings brought into the light. Ryder wasn’t watching him out of a motive to figure the Collective or the exiled man out, write it in a report and find weakness in armor crafted from stolen Nexus paneling, he was watching a man to understand him, with all the wickedness included. Those thoughtful, crinkling hazel eyes were just looking at Reyes Vidal. </p>
<p>Cora is almost close enough to hear conversation, and Ryder, still riding through a thousand new details, shares with him one last quiet moment before he says with finality, duty bound, “Goodbye Reyes.” He won’t be able to defend Reyes any further unless he wants to alert his team to how far he’s let the security breach sway him and if there’s one thing Ryder can’t allow it’s putting his team in danger unnecessarily by his own actions. He’ll carry a burden so heavy his knees will creak but he won’t put that baggage on his Tempest sworn allies. </p>
<p>Reyes feels their canyon, the promise Ryder made to a mighty father months ago and righteousness the only shield preventing mass starvation and blood spilled by forces too strong for the common man that can only be held by one person rising up again, because he has no choice. “Goodbye,” He says, hearing the waves getting further, “Ryder.”</p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Glass shatters, exploding against the wall and scaring a dancer who flinches down and away, hoping not to get caught up in the brawl, all fists and loud words. Ex-Outcast soldiers who didn’t rise up against the Collective lie in wait, stewing with bitter resentment, wounded pride and with their faded emblems now find solace in the basics. Bar fights and alcohol. </p>
<p>“Fuck you and your spineless leader! Bring that motherfucker here and I’ll show him what a real soldier looks like!” The man snarls, blood smeared from a broken nose harsh in his teeth and gaze vicious like a cornered lion with a wound eyeing the new presence on old territory. His dark hair has an old gash right at the hairline near the temple, a scar forever a reminder of battles fought and returned from. He grabs the other man by the armor at the creases between the arms and the chest plate, a known Collective man who had a few snide remarks for a sore loser sitting at a bar paid for by the person they were so violently against when still at the top of the food chain. </p>
<p>Gold tooth shining, the man laughs, bruised at the cheek, steps jerking with their battle for dominance, “How’s the Charlatan’s booze taste? Better than that sad shit Sloane was tossing into your slop bin, huh?” </p>
<p> “You bastard!” </p>
<p>Several of the man’s acquaintances rise to his defense, calling the Collective agent’s alliances and fists fly, tight with deep rooted rage and opposition. A man slams the ground, one climbing atop him, wailing punches mercilessly against his raised arms barely protecting the vulnerable parts of his face. With a wild shout, shoulder taking most of the blow, another man is tossed across a table, glasses falling as he rolls, graceless, over the other side and grunts upon impact of the chair. </p>
<p>Kian looks on with a resigned wipe of his face, but Barbi has seen too many fights over the past few evenings and merely refolds her legs, watching the TV with drink in hand. </p>
<p>“Och, Barbi, the bills I’ll be paying.”</p>
<p>“About time you got some new glasses,” She lifts hers, inspecting it, “They’re looking a bit cloudy.”</p>
<p>The door flies open, Lynx standing with a serious expression, brows set, power stance obvious and she strides in, a couple of guards following. Pulling free a taser, she calls into the pit of limbs and retaliation, “All residents of the Port and the slums who are still affiliated with the Outcast will be penalized!” She gives everyone a moment to halt fighting, the gold toothed man dodging a punch and stepping back, Collective colors clear to her even in the flashing lights of Tartarus. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>One agent at her shoulder sets a tub sloshing to the floor, hooking a pump to her pulled stun gun and with a quick, sharp motion, she aims the laser and splashes liquid electricity all over the soldier ready to pounce his enemy. He seizes, arms jerking to his sides, neck going taut and collapses with a stiffness along his spine, still spasming. Lynx doesn’t give even another moment to process, firing several other shots to his affiliates, yells of defeat muffled with gritted teeth. </p>
<p>The Turian at her other shoulder moves, practiced and exact, and straddles a man, knee splashing in harmless wet as she yanks his arms behind his back and cuffs him, expression stone. Lynx disconnects her stun gun, holstering it and follows suit, stepping around a man to get better angle and looks across the club, knowing she arrived with such precise timing for a reason. Sweeping the room, the dancers drawn together to whisper, and those still drinking without even a glance in their direction, this a common enough occurrence that it matters not what the other side of the club is doing as long as their glasses don’t end up shattered on the floor with wasted alcohol, she sees nothing out of the ordinary, the ever-watchful eyes blending well. She peers through those walking for the stairs, and sees the reason leaning against the bar, drink in hand, looking back. Looking long before she had been. </p>
<p>Her expression darkens, and she jerks the man’s arm hard enough he protests before she slaps the cuffs on, “Don’t move.” Lynx orders, stepping off over him so she can call transport and file them into the system, put their awkward, pathetic pictures down as ex-Outcast and as rioters in their critical period of taking power. When she is finished, omni-tool vanished, she uses her chin to indicate to her agents to lead the arrested out the front, the Turian looking down at the floundering fish out of water splashing in cold defeat trying to stand without their arms. </p>
<p>Staring, challenging him to make proof he was her first indicator of trouble, Lynx glowers when Reyes lifts his glass ever so to her in her swift victory, tactfully acknowledging intel. </p>
<p>The men, muscles still stiff and tight in all the wrong places bumble out, rebellious fire dampened like a sad half drowned cat who tried to leap over a tub filled. She approaches and he lowers his whiskey, “Quite the system you have there.”</p>
<p>Narrowing her eyes, she says with barely contained hostility, “You would know.” You created it, her gaze says with no less animosity. Not liking him from day one to realize he is the reason she’s found position suitable to her skills and a place to act on aggressive feelings as well as companions intelligent and worth the hard work, has not settled well with the Asari, and they both know if he had furthered his title even just a toe out of the shadow of anonymity she would’ve acted on the protest, distrust for his motives leading a resistance from one of his stronger representatives. But she cannot identify the fine line between him and the Charlatan anymore and that leaves her just narrowly avoiding speaking her real mind. Respect for a superior who knows their boundaries is leaking through, even if she detests his personality face to face. </p>
<p>“It’s your unit.” He says and she sneers, hating that it brings her pride to own something when the Nexus pulled out even the flooring from them knowing all the same it is connected to a man she finds so untrustworthy. </p>
<p>“Have a drink, Lynx.” Reyes offers, opening his stance so she can talk to the bartender who is flipping through the channels by Barbi’s pointing. “You’re off the clock now.”</p>
<p>Eyes flashing, malice as obvious as the color of gold in her irises, she slams an elbow to the counter, and points a finger to a bottle high on the shelf with an L on the bottom, “Pour me a shot. I’m in a hurry.”</p>
<p>“You got it, Lynx.”</p>
<p>Glass sliding into her open hand, she flicks a wrist and the liquid vanishes, giving Reyes an unblinking stare. Without even needing to swallow twice, she glides the empty glass back and stalks around Reyes a mere hair from shouldering him before leaving the club. Zrel stands from her chair positioned at her corner as the Asari leaves and resumes her bouncer position, easily sitting back at opportune moments for a break. </p>
<p>“Stop there, Kian!” Barbi jumps, touching his arm, both of them behind the counter, inside the protective cage, “There he is.” She says with compliment in her tone and Reyes glances to the screen, a picture of Ryder, recent, time evident in the maturing of the eyes, and him standing in the Tempest, uniform on, maybe from the exchange with the Angaran ambassador.  </p>
<p>The voiced over announcer is talking of the Tempest’s long-awaited return to the Nexus after so much time out on the field following a rescue mission for New Tuchanka’s colony. </p>
<p>“And colony leader Morda of the Nakmor clan speaks on this issue with a Nexus reporter. Here are some of her brief words before she declined to offer any further detail on the situation until proper legal work has been decided.”</p>
<p>Morda’s face flicks onto the screen, standing on the walkway between the colony and the outpost, the sun glaring into the deep pits left and right in the wide camera angle, “With the swift and fast acting help of the Pathfinder team, the egg vault has been returned to the colony with no harm done to the eggs. While this is a great relief and victory for Krogan future, it does prove we need tighter security and communication between all leading political powers to prevent any further tragedy. We owe this mission’s success to Nakmor Drack and his ties with the Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>Aroane’s picture is sudden on the screen as the announcer shifts the topic to the crime itself, “The capture of the Krogan transport was led by a man known by the black market as Aroane. He has been largely off the grid since the Nexus mutiny, selling space rock and other valuables, even stolen goods but it does beg the question,</p>
<p>‘How did he find out this vital information?’ This concludes this brief news report. Let us shift the conversation over to the pods and the timing for awakenings. Does the Nexus have room for another wave of blue-collar workers who are scheduled to be released in the next few weeks?”</p>
<p>Barbi sighs, swirling her lonely ice in a glass with no liquid by a finger. “We didn’t even get to see an interview with him.”</p>
<p>Kian shrugs, shoulders sharp and folds his arms, “He’ll say the same stuff he always says. ‘We can do this together, the future is just around the corner,’ and shite like that.” He turns away from the screen, and notices the glass of whiskey is finished, the man who was holding gone and he glances into the club, “Thought he’d go upstairs for a bit. Been a minute since he has.”</p>
<p>“Who? Vidal?” Barbi asks, standing, stretching her arms, “He seemed.. distracted.”</p>
<p>“Business can’t be bad.” </p>
<p>She grabs a broom from the corner of the bar area and says, “Not like that. Pour me another, I’m going to be thirsty after cleaning up this dreadful mess..”</p>
<p>Walls dented by Krogan shoulder, rage, fury raining cracks up into the very concrete of the room, the replay of Krid’s interrogation speaks to the foundation of the Outcast and to those who could bear the fire of Sloane Kelly, unafraid of flame burning everything away. A number of men from Batus’ team hired to help control him have been sent to the medical unit, ribs broken, arms snapped with the weight and force of Krid’s protests. The first long hours of his arrival are nothing but violence and chaos, and roars that can barely be contained by sound proof box. </p>
<p>He demands to see Sloane Kelly finally after realizing he can’t pull his arms free of the Krogan cuffs chained to the floor, although there was concern by the murmuring recorded from level one that the floor itself would rip free from the earth and give him a makeshift ball and chain to swing. Negotiations capable, Crux agrees to show him the body, to let leader go from impervious, undefeatable face of power to memory and lingering reminder of mortality. </p>
<p>They wheel the body in, still set in a cooling container, saved for later date, when a funeral’s visibility proves better dialogue for the Collective. Lifting the lid, Crux standing by officially, datapad in hand, hair behind her ear, they give him the shock of truth; Sloane’s face cool, eternal sleep prepared, eyes already sealed shut and mouth a perfect line, nothing out of order, wounds cleaned and preservation an earned respect, something thought through, careful detail exact and trained just like the Collective, nothing done without the next three steps analyzed and prepared for. </p>
<p>They give him no reason to rise up, no fuel for a flame so Krid sighs heavily in his chair, big body going slack with the situation. Revenge is a healthy ambition but not when all the playing cards are on one side of the table and Krid is a Krogan warrior. Death in duel with respect to a fighter’s aftercare is a way to leave this plane of existence with dignity, glory and remembrance and he sees the Collective was not quick to put head to spike even for their enemy despite Sloane Kelly doing so to them. Glancing tentatively to each person in the room, he rattles the chains and says, “So it really happened. The Charlatan killed Sloane.” He gives the bullet wound in her forehead another long stare, “Good shot too.” </p>
<p> Groaning, leaning forward, he puts an elbow to a knee and with a sweeping hand, he sighs, “I’m sure you’ve sent any obvious loyalists to the badlands.”</p>
<p>Crux indicates her men to close the lid and wheel the body back out with a motion of her fingers, “Correct.”</p>
<p>“They would’ve only raised hell whether they saw her body or not. Not great for thinking ahead but,” He chuckles, stroking his chin, fond in his memories, “Damn did they pack some heat in their punches.” Distant eyes find a place known to him and his leader and to a moment special, maybe fragile, and he says in a breath, “She knew how to kill. But who knows what kind of future that would’ve led to.” He comes out of his headspace, leaving the past in the past and begins, “I know I’m not in the place to be making demands but..”</p>
<p>“We’ll hear you out.” Crux says in return. </p>
<p>“I don’t have a reason to stay here and my face ain’t one easily forgotten for.. what I’ve done for security. New Tuchanka’s actually got a chance and I think the colony could use my knowledge. I’ll leave Kadara, say the right words, maybe get a few Krogan still willing to fight off your backs. I’m not looking to leave here in a body bag.”</p>
<p>Crux considers him, pale green eyes looking him up and down but she has a notoriously simple and effective poker face. “We’ll discuss this with the Charlatan.” She finally says and leaves the room. The video continues merely as a means to monitor the Krogan but it only consists now of long stretches of little movement and check-ins which go on without issue. </p>
<p>When Reyes is ready to consider the request, he calls Batus and Crux up to the Charlatan’s office, the one that can be seen above the acquisitions warehouse with dark tinted glass and secrets paved in each stair upward. </p>
<p>She enters with the hushed suspense of a long-awaited reveal to something fascinating, a question asked long ago with an answer bated with anticipation. He turns in his chair, folding his hands loosely, the monitor simply a screen of Krid in his containment and an ever-moving comms for basic exchanges in the Collective. There is a table meant for repurposing or building technology, swept and clean except for tools and shelves with datapads filed, and a bottle of whiskey with only a fourth of the bottle still in it with a glass, clean, upside down to avoid dust settling. </p>
<p>Batus enters, breathing a reserved sigh, repositioning his armor after the door has closed and then looks between his confidants and says, “Long day.” </p>
<p>Crux lifts a corner of her mouth, “Barely an interrogation until the final hour.”</p>
<p>“Just a lot of paperwork and approving medical leave.” The Turian relaxes into a natural stance, “But he’s talking now.”</p>
<p>“Talking about leaving Kadara. With in-depth knowledge of the Outcast formation and all its members.”</p>
<p>“Members that are scattered with wildly differing motives.” Reyes adds, “He did say he would renounce position in the Outcast and deter loyal Krogan from planning retaliation.”</p>
<p>“Do we believe him?” Crux asks, pulling her datapad out, “He’s been firm on his stance since day one, not budging even when the Pathfinder arrived.”</p>
<p>“The Pathfinder’s hardly a good way to challenge someone’s loyalties.” Batus argues, looking to her, “As much as he looks like he’s acting as a free agent, the guy’s got Initiative painted all over him. Sure, a couple of the Tempest crew could be worth doing business with but we know at the end of the day, the Pathfinder answers to one call. The Outcast was built on its dissatisfaction toward the Nexus and the Initiative so consistency should be expected.”</p>
<p>Reyes looks back to Crux who is typing, adding Batus’ opinions down in quick script, “Well if he leaves to the colony, they’ve got contract with the Nexus there for that outpost. How can we be so certain he won’t just reform and send an attack there?”</p>
<p>Batus nods, “You’ve got a point.”</p>
<p>“Morda won’t allow it. She’s the matriarch and she’s looking for stability. If it weren’t a colony, a place to raise younger Krogan and build a future, we wouldn’t even be considering it. But she holds the upper hand in the contract about the outpost. Even if the Nexus leadership won’t admit it, it’s her outpost. And because of the situation with Aroane, there’s going to be heightened security and further demands made about the Initiative presence.” Reyes explains, pulling a cigarette out, letting Batus step forward and light it with a steady hand. “It’s good timing for the Collective to let Krogan out of their positions as heavies to head back to the ‘homeland.’” </p>
<p>“Do we contact the colony beforehand?” Crux asks, light of her datapad accentuating her round cheeks, and soft jaw. </p>
<p>Reyes blows smoke, chest tightening in the scent, “Sure. With this timing we can even gain approval from New Tuchanka which will only further the necessity to acknowledge the Collective formerly.”</p>
<p>Crux nods, sliding her datapad away and says, “I’ll contact New Tuchanka.”</p>
<p>Batus looks between them and replies, “Then I’ll inform Krid. He’ll need to start preparing his message to other Krogan.”</p>
<p>Holding the cigarette between his lips, Reyes turns, and opens a line to Makerix, “Makerix will help you spread the message.” He shoots her a quick heads-up, easy details and who is looking for her expertise.</p>
<p>“Roger.” Batus formerly nods and shows his respect to the Charlatan, leaving the room for timely action. Crux watches him go, and then sighs, breathing, unaffected by the low hanging smoke. </p>
<p>“Lynx was complaining.” She starts, and when he turns back to her, fingers moving the cigarette for another slow, seasoned release of smoke through the side of his mouth, she sees something in his face that settles the slight curve of her brow. Something she had been questioning, maybe it was whether he really was the unfaithful lover, a good merchant of luck and timing, with little discipline unless it came to money. But she sees him, sitting in his throne that is not a throne, in the shadow when he can easily take position in the light, beneath the ground, still carefully making decisions and adding fuel to a well taken care of machine even with all opportunity to take and take and never give back. </p>
<p>“Was she?” He says, neither deflecting nor prying. </p>
<p>She blinks, slow and careful and reconsiders her own position, pushing her hair back, “Nothing serious, just idle talk. I’ll go make contact with the colony.” She stops at the door, turns to him, sees his eyes watching her and for that she excuses herself and the door closes. Assurance in his attention, he doesn’t need to be more than one person to guarantee awareness which expects diligence. He sucks in hard on the cigarette, red faint in light on his lips and cheekbones, crackling heat in his lungs and reminds himself of things he’s had that no one else will without his presence, reveling in smoke that has transformed meaning, gone from an echo of one person to himself. Thorough in the brief second, indulging a private pride, he pulls up another message feed. </p>
<p>He contacts Rob, to tell him of a special job, a final request to put the credits he needs into his bank account and free him of one bad decision down a darkened road he made when desperate. While he waits, he leans back, watches for Batus, who steps into the interrogation room after a stretch of time. </p>
<p>“Well?” Krid grunts, walls jumping up at the sight of the weapons master and expert persuader, still feeling the lingering welts and bruises from their last interaction. He doesn’t think it a good sign that Crux has let the bad cop in their duo take over. “You didn’t come to slap me around and tell me I’m fucked, are you?”</p>
<p>Batus chuckles, his rare, chiseled humor showing, “You’re in luck today. We’re willing to take you up on your offer. For the benefits of your proposition. The Collective isn’t looking to waste time and effort reacting to each and every loyalist with a sun complex, and Morda will… <em>appreciate</em> the favor letting heavies go from expendable guard dogs in contract with a human to happy, opportunistic Krogan free to roam the camps as they please.”</p>
<p>Krid gives him an examination from underneath a lowered brow, “Know a lot about the camps, do you.” He grunts, far too mature to give in to suspiciously optimistic news. </p>
<p>“Nothing but good stories from old warriors like yourself.” Batus says lightly, hitching his thumbs in his weapon belt, “We’ll expect a reasonable number of deterred fighters to.. satisfy the boss. You get that.”</p>
<p>Nodding, Krid rocks back in his chair, “Oh,” He sighs with a distinct heaviness, “I get that.” Giving the Turian another eye up and down, he says, “Your boss the hot-headed type or am I gunna have myself the time to do a little sweet talking?”</p>
<p>“The boss is as cold as hell frozen over; you’ll be given proper time.”</p>
<p>Krid snorts, amused by the polar opposites, and verifies, with a certain air of guarded consideration, “Is Chug here?”</p>
<p>“In a cell of his own.”</p>
<p>Krid lets out a long, gravelly sigh, “Let me talk to him first.”</p>
<p>The Krogan bumbles down into the depths of Draullir, long hallways of rooms that have held their share of enemies to the force and the silence, the crafted quiet that does nothing to indicate the amount of lives behind solid doors creeps along the well-lit floors of the prison unit. Numbers above each cell provide proper organization, names becoming merely figures going up into the hundreds and notes in a datapad of an officer their last words spoken to the universe. </p>
<p>Leading, Batus shows Krid the way as well as several guards at the Krogan’s elbows, tasers ready to disarm violent thinking, separate body from intention although it is more of a performed respect between long existing rivals than a cautionary necessity. Guards walk the corridors, making their rounds and are excused upon Batus’ approach, allowed to walk into the long stretches, make report upward literally and to the chain of command elsewhere as they stop at Chug’s cell. </p>
<p>Batus flips on his omni-tool, unlocking the first door, the thick, double plated metal door to slide it out of the way for the electronic, translucent second barrier, one with an electric field to prevent touching or beating on the metal door as well as a security measure to deactivate any and all devices in case of an attempt at escape. Chug, sitting on the thin but stable cot in the corner stands, alerted by the grind of metal on metal and looks to the guards and then to Krid.</p>
<p>“You’re alive!” He says, amazed, coming quickly to stand at the doorway, careful not to touch. His attention alters, awe crumpling like a spider’s legs upon death when he sees Krid’s expression. “What the fuck is wrong with your face?”</p>
<p>“I’m leaving, Chug. I’ve come to ask you to come with me.”</p>
<p>Expression souring, the smaller Krogan asks with a dawning betrayal in his eyes, “Leaving where? Why aren’t you in a cell like me?”</p>
<p>“I’m leaving for the colony. I’m finished with the Outcasts.”</p>
<p>Bursting out, Chug slams his fists, the wall immediately firing electricity so hot it burns on impact and snarls, “You don’t stand for anything! Where’s the fucking loyalty you promised?!”</p>
<p>“It’s out in the badlands, eating scraps.” Krid says, his flash of grief done the moment he found out the truth, “She’s dead, Chug. Sloane’s gone. It’s over.”</p>
<p>Skin sizzling, burn marks fresh, hot, like the scorch of hurt and shock on his heart, Chug steps away, dropping his hands like they feel nothing in comparison to the tidal wave of anguish. He breathes, but it stops sharp and harsh in his chest and he holds it, to press down the emotions, and walks further, shaking his head, unbelieving at first, then critical, “How can she really be dead?” He says breathlessly, “She walked through fire..” </p>
<p>Krid watches him, observing a younger warrior witness even the hardest souls meet their match and lose. To greet the emotion for the mortality of legends and its damage to the spirit, patience becomes him, and Batus as well, standing by with the distance given for respect. </p>
<p>“We were going to kill those motherfuckers who sent us into space to die!” Chug wails on his closest ally, mouth going wide with the breaking of his voice, “I was supposed to go with her!” </p>
<p>“I know.” Krid says with a distinct finality that proves he felt the same. </p>
<p>Face turned away, Chug stands stiff, a fighter left with his armor on, sword ready and no war to bring home the glory from. A place beside a commander larger than tragedy now merely a fantasy, a story told in what-ifs, Chug mutters, “I need a moment.”</p>
<p>Krid looks to Batus who nods, and they close the door to lead Krid to his own cell, the Collective offering a future secured by transformation and nothing less, if just a cell to provide time the space to tick on and on and on. </p>
<p>The Tempest docks on the Nexus in the early hours of dawn, just as the sun’s fingers begin to glow over the arching mountain tops and cascade the sky with fresh color, a new day reborn starting with the erasure of night. Reyes watches the sunrise from the wide, far seeing view of the windows in Dr. Nakamoto’s office as the man connects his old monitor, bumping his head on the desk with a resounding noise. </p>
<p>“Ouch!” He pulls out with far more caution the second time and groans upon standing, “You know,” He says, frowning, rubbing the tender spot on the crown of his head, “This wasn’t an invitation for coffee.”</p>
<p>“I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want.”</p>
<p>The doctor purses his lips, matched and looks seriously around the room, the cleanliness of the walls, the equipment sterile and trusted and strong, with good connection to electricity and power and a desk chair that doesn’t show a sad, limp quality when sat in. “I’ve got more than I could ever ask for… or deserve.” He mutters finally, resting back against his desk. </p>
<p>Reyes glances to the old monitor with its dirt and grime from the slums and says, “The monitor is a good start.”</p>
<p>Ho-sook walks in, the door gliding open with a smooth swish, and she drops a box down onto the floor with a sigh, wiping her brow with a towel from around her slender neck. “That’s the last one. I don’t know why you insist on keeping every datapad from every single check-up you’ve done since you’ve been here.”</p>
<p>“Medicine is built on repetition. You should never overestimate your own abilities. It’s all in the-“</p>
<p>“Details.” She finishes for him and he gives her a long, considering look before he almost chuckles, shaking his head slightly. Enough of a sense of humor to be a laugh for the doctor. Lachlan peeks her head in, and smiles when she sees Reyes over next to the window. Free of the upper part of her suit, she has the arms tied around her waist and her bare shoulders show a strong line of muscle and brown skin. </p>
<p>“Is it already time for a coffee break?” Ho-sook absently wipes her neck, the color of exercise left off her complexion, but obvious from her readiness for a moment of rest. </p>
<p>Reyes gives Dr. Nakamoto a knowing look and it makes the doctor grunt, “One of these days, Vidal, that smart-ass side of yours is going to get you in trouble.” </p>
<p>“<em>You</em> called <em>me</em>.” </p>
<p>Ho-sook smiles ever so slightly and says, “After all this time you won’t just be honest, Ryota?”</p>
<p>The doctor gives her a warning pinch of his heavy dark brows and says with a sharpening tone, “Ho-sook-“</p>
<p>“You hadn’t come around in a while. Ryota was worried someone had gotten the better of you without him knowing.”</p>
<p>Expression as close to a sulk for a grown man, Dr. Nakamoto mutters, “I’ll shake the hand of the person who can catch this man off guard.” Reyes knows he’s already shaken the hand of the man who could do such a thing, although it wasn’t in the manner to which Ryota was imagining. </p>
<p>Lachlan is brewing a pot, pulling cups into position, her nape touched by dark curls growing long. She comes to Reyes and gently, ritualistic, she reaches for his cup, and asks with her eyes if he would like a refreshment. Handing her the mug, a simple pleasure dimples her cheeks and she steps back slowly, treasuring a vision, an image of an elusive man and a beautiful, rare sunrise on his shoulders all for her to frame in her mind. She doesn’t hide her attention for him, never has but he’s breaking eye contact at the vibration of a mostly silent notification. </p>
<p>Rob has agreed, a messenger boy carrying the first figurative letter in order to hide even the most coverable of traces. Nothing in writing except for an exchange of pictures any Nexus affiliated person can have access to, he is the essence of the power play necessary when political advantage is so steep the climb up the rickety ladder would take ages to prove corruption present. He won’t give snakes easy eggs to devour, but he will be entering the nest of vipers. The Charlatan sees perfect opportunity to instead send not a seasoned spy with all their connections, all their dark corners with probable cause, but just one man with more information than he should have and shake the foundations of entitlement. </p>
<p>Lachlan glides the coffee cup into his hand and rests against the window seal next to him. Ryota sits in his chair, relaxing and takes his own cup from Ho-sook thankfully, “I actually did have a request. I don’t know if you’re the man to talk to and the Charlatan has already… taken care of so much in the fall of the Outcasts but I’m looking to get supplies out to a place in the badlands. Just some scavengers living on their own, finding ways to eat off Kadara soils.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Reyes says, sipping coffee black and hot. He glances to Lachlan and she gives him a confirming dip of her chin, sipping her own black coffee. “We can handle that.”</p>
<p>Strapping the medical supplies to his bike, along with seedlings, basics for food preparation, dried blocks of nutrient dense space foods, Reyes lifts his helmet and says, “You brought yours?”</p>
<p>Lachlan raises her hand, holding hers, and then puts it on, zipping her suit up to her throat and rolling her shoulders. He glides his on, and nods her forward, the gate to the badlands creaking open with his instruction. Revving the engine, bringing the bike to a purr, Lachlan gives him the green light when her arms tighten ever so slightly around his torso and they burst out of the slums, tearing along the dirt road with a memorized map of the terrain leading his way. </p>
<p>Day shines on the sleek body of his bike and their helmets, the gaping entrance to the slums receding behind them for something far more sinister. The roar of another vehicle bursts over the hills, large tires tearing up plant and gravel, the jeep open for easy shooting, loyalists booming over a makeshift speaker, “You can’t outrun loyalty!” </p>
<p>Reyes glances over his shoulder, checking their numbers, the Outcast soldiers turned scavengers and their ambush ready, one jeep and two bikes pursuing. He revs, taking a sharp curve along a steep mountain, gliding the bike down to skim their knees across fast moving dirt. With a sharp, controlled bounce, the bikes follow them onto the road, the jeep tearing up along the hills above for an assault at an angle. </p>
<p>Lachlan’s hand slips into Reyes’ holster for his pistol and, repositioning her hips, she turns and takes aim. </p>
<p>“You’re going to be Outcast fodder!” The man on the speaker cackles, dodging back into the jeep as Lachlan fires a shot that pings off the frame of the vehicle. Dipping down out of sight in the hills, Reyes thinks they’ll try to burst out and catch them at the next crossroads so he slows, lets the other bikes catch up with their prodding sticks and their rifles. </p>
<p>He drops speed immediately, kicking up dirt and the bikes zip past, barely missing the jab of an electrified weapon, giving Lachlan time to steady her arm and take a shot, hitting a man in the back and throwing one bike’s weight off, skidding the back wheel as he rolls to the left. Gunning the engine, Reyes jerks them both forward, leaning right to use the cover of the other bike to prevent the jeep hitting them at the opening of the crossroads battle as a pretense for their positions. </p>
<p>Kicking the rifle away, Lachlan wrestles her pistol towards the driver, but the man sitting behind him manages to grab her wrist, yanking her almost off the bike and she releases for her best chance, letting the weapon vanish in the dust. They waver, both bikes trying to keep steady at their speeds and as the hills fold down, Reyes orders, “Duck Lachlan!”</p>
<p>She bends, her arm creaking under the man’s hold but they quickly find their space again as a rocket rips the man’s head off and zips past, exploding onto the hills and catching fire to the grasses and bushes with a heat so smothering, the smoke itself shows viciousness. </p>
<p>Quickly grabbing ahold of Reyes, Lachlan’s heartbeat thuds against his back, and she yells over the wind, “Any other weapons?”</p>
<p>The jeep leaps onto the road, bursting past the slowed bike working to rebalance and pursues with a vengeance. Reyes doesn’t have anything else but a knife in a compartment of his boot so he leads her hand by his own to it, letting her feel the handle with her fingers and pull it free. She looks over her shoulder as they rush through deep trenches of blue, green waters and chalky banks that the slight waves lick endlessly. </p>
<p>Flipping completely around, Lachlan tests her arm, aligning the knife tip, playing a game of chicken with the man in the passenger seat loading another rocket. She uses her boots to hold herself to the bike, making sure not to lean too far forward and tip them, before she flicks her wrist with force, rotating the knife in swift circles, passing through the open, glassless panel of the front windshield and right into the man’s forehead. He flops into his seat, blood only a drip, controlled, sliding down his nose and towards his open mouth, rocket still flashing, ready to be shot out, red light ominous. </p>
<p>The driver jerks, reflex slow but present and barely realigns his wheels, grinding up white and splashing slightly in the small sulfur pools. Reyes takes a sharp turn only after he knows Lachlan is putting her arms back around him, and they glide into an area full of boulders, fallen rocks from a long-defeated mountain torn down by the elements. Swerving through the greys and dusty browns, escape appears right in their grasp, and he takes the risk of rising to higher ground, following a winding slender path upward onto the hill side so they can get a better view. </p>
<p>First putting out a foot to catch them, engine still vibrating with power, Reyes looks down at the stopped vehicle putting out exhaust, a predator too tired to continue chase at the expense of more energy. They don’t wait for any other loyalists to catch whiff of their existence and slip down off the hill and out of sight. </p>
<p>Pulling up to a distant and dark windowed safehouse, Lachlan examines its tall staircases and stilted rooms far off the ground and out of the way for crime of opportunity. There doesn’t appear to be anyone around, only the spinning rotation of a device on the roof keeping a signal for the area in the depths of the wild, untamable hills of Kadara. </p>
<p>Stepping off the bike with him, Lachlan looks around, and asks, “Is this where we’re supposed to drop off the supplies?”</p>
<p>“No,” He answers, “That’s where you’re going. Meet me back here when you’re done. There shouldn’t be any more loyalists trying for ambush this far into the badlands.”</p>
<p>He offers her the key to the supplies crate out of his pocket and she takes it, looking at the bike and then back to him but Reyes is already walking up the steps, opening his omni-tool and she rubs her hands, revealing a genuine excitement. Settling into the seat, she adjusts herself, feeling the machine beneath her hands, tests the engine and kicks up the stand. The bike flies off with a slight swerve to someone learning its strength and Reyes glances at her retreating figure but finds the process of hacking the multiple defenses of the door far more involving. </p>
<p>When he walks in, the lights flick on, motion sensing and he sees the comforts of money in all the details. Furniture wherever one might consider lounging, high spec screens in every room, even the kitchen, there is nothing that hasn’t been kissed by gold. A low, plush mattress he sinks his hand into and a shower with clean water and high pressure. Taking in the wealth with a slow appraisal of the credits and how they were spent, Reyes looks for William Spender’s guarantees, his safety nets that have kept him so arrogant and convinced of his imperviousness. </p>
<p>A slow stalking of the room tells of the infrequency of stay, things untouched everywhere, cabinets, drawers empty, no personal effects save a few shirts hanging in the closet. </p>
<p>His liquor cabinet is filled with the most expensive bottles one can find but nothing that shows taste or an actual opinion, just desire to consume, and Reyes pushes through all the performative success to the back to see a lock box. Pulling it out, he sits on the couch, puts his feet up and takes his time manually picking the lock, enjoying the pride before the fall, knowing the man doesn’t think right at this moment the Charlatan is about to collapse his trade and his double life one literal and figurative lock box at a time. </p>
<p>It clicks open, and Reyes sees exactly what he’s been looking for, a scrambler, on and alive, one to a pair, to keep communications invisible. Placing it carefully on the table, Reyes looks out the tall window for a wall and thinks maybe he’ll inherit this lovely home away from home as a consolation prize for victories thought impossible by all the uniformed people at the top. From here, in the silence of nature, the sun, the uncultivated possibilities are quiet, they’re whatever he wants them to be and magnificent. </p>
<p>Waiting, he stands and gets a glass so he can pick his favorite liquor from the choices and savor the rise before the fall for men. Studying the years, the brands, he picks a two-hundred-year-old whisky, smokey, rich, and far too strong for the spine of a man like Spender. It’s unopened, and he cracks the seal and pours the sharp aroma into an angular glass. Smelling it, letting it waft over his senses, he gets a notification that there is a live interview happening from Keri’s channel with the Pathfinder. An old, aged sensation flares to life, of a time when he drank and observed the Pathfinder on channels merely as a pastime and didn’t know just what they were to become, or how intertwined each detail he was to learn was going to become in his mind. </p>
<p>Flipping on the screen, he sits back on the couch, and finds Keri’s paid timeslot in the Nexus assortment of available channels. She is smiling, a crafted professionalism appearing like friendliness. </p>
<p>Mic in hand, she turns her head slightly, “Just returned from a long string of missions out in the universe, I have here an exclusive moment with the Pathfinder who agreed to let me ask just a few questions in his limited time.” </p>
<p>The camera pans out, giving room for Ryder in the screen who is dressed in white, uniform crisp, even at the weight of a sling for his arm which is tucked against his person. Removing his service cap, he reveals the state of his eyes. A lasting alteration, this is not the gentle grievance of a momentary flash of emotion ready to come and go with time, but the mark of permanence that Ryder has felt something soul crushing and just managed to survive. </p>
<p>He doesn’t focus on the camera, used to the flashing and the attention, his title being called by the roped off crowds and common people waving. A long-standing relationship has allowed Keri to step past security, Kandros in the back corner with a sharp stare indicating close observation and immediate penalty to any others who don’t follow protocols for the marvelous celebration. There is the flurry of confetti floating down from the higher levels of the docking bay, cheers and smiles all around. </p>
<p>Her voice can be heard even over the noise, and she says, “First, I wanted to congratulate you on all your successes. Your popularity proves you’ve given a lot of people hope. The Nexus relies on your ground-breaking exploration and development on far worlds.”</p>
<p>Ryder listens, watching her, making direct eye contact. Pride, joy, glowing positivity doesn’t flush to life here, even beneath honest praise and he waits for her question. </p>
<p>“And now, through your exploration, you’ve met the ‘treacherous mutineers’ at Kadara Port.” She edges the topic, “We all know on other worlds the Nexus has established residence with triumph amongst those living there. Aya, we found common ground and now share trade with the Angara, and even Elaaden, where we now have a flourishing relationship with the colony, New Tuchanka. But some think Kadara is different considering it is a world full of exiles. There are quite a few that believe those refugees are a menace to be eradicated, not reasoned with. What do you have to say?”</p>
<p>Ryder takes a moment, that thoughtful consideration he indulges unchanged and says, shifting his fingers on his cap, “The first thing would be to change the narrative. Those ‘treacherous mutineers’ are Nexus brought people and have every right to be here as you or me.”</p>
<p>“Despite the growing list of crimes they’ve committed?”</p>
<p>“No one could have predicted the tragedy that put everyone in terrible circumstances a year ago. We can’t write off our own people when there are so many other threats to fend off.”</p>
<p>Keri examines him and responds, “Even though an exile is the reason your arm is in a sling today?”</p>
<p>His eyelashes flutter, the controlled effects of a reaction but he says calmly, “If we can’t pull our own people back together, how can we expect to provide understanding and compromise to species we’ve only known a short while? The black market, stealing, fear and violence, none of that is new to Andromeda, but we should try to understand why they’re being relied on so heavily right now.” </p>
<p>“It seems you’ve taken a largely different stance today than you’ve had in the past. Does this mean you’re going to stop fighting exiles and disbanding crime affiliated groups under the Initiative?” </p>
<p>Ryder glances to Kandros who apparently has given a signal so he glides his cap back on and says, “We should always be looking for better ways to move forward. If you’ll excuse me.” He steps back, and joins Kandros and Vetra who has slipped out from behind the camera’s blind spot and Keri calls after him, “One last question! The rumors about Sloane Kelly having died at the hand of a mysterious crime lord called the Charlatan, is that true?”</p>
<p>Ryder corrects the line of his visor, “No comment.” He says, and they walk down the established aisle, through the confetti and delight, the hero of clean justice and growing wealth celebrated for the easy conscience he gives. </p>
<p>Keri turns back to the camera, a certain air of excitement in her gaze, “Lots to unfold here. While we have no more information to base the claims that indeed there is a rising force on Kadara other than the Outcasts led by rebel leader Sloane Kelly, it does beg the question with the Pathfinder’s silence, does he know more than he lets on? Will we see an entire shift in the Initiative against the exiles now that their lead soldier is taking a step back? Or is something else going on? As always, we’ll work on bringing you the details fast and clear, Keri signing out.”</p>
<p>Reyes frowns slightly, the news travelled of Sloane’s passing was supposed to come from his own sources but nothing is relevant until proof is provided, so he unfurrows his brow and accepts a journalist’s biggest priorities are saying rumors first. </p>
<p>“God dammit!” Tann bursts out as the door closes, just barely keeping his outburst from ringing out into Operations, “The timing! Does he have no idea about the timing!” </p>
<p>Addison turns, hands folded behind her back and Kesh lifts her gaze from her paperwork, “Director Tann-“</p>
<p>“Why even take an interview, I told Kandros to bring him right here-“</p>
<p>“Director Tann!” Addison says more sharply, and he follows her gaze to the man standing in the corner, sweating, brow folded down in nerves, “We have a … guest.”</p>
<p>“A guest? Now?” The director repeats incredulously giving the man a long look, “Who is he?”</p>
<p>“A messenger apparently.” She says with a coolness, a serious edge of ice. </p>
<p>“One surprise after another…” The Salarian mutters, “Does he need to still be here? Is there something the matter with the pipes? You know we’ve had patches of steam escaping-”</p>
<p>“It isn’t about pipes.” She cuts him off, “He said he can’t give the message until the Pathfinder arrives.”</p>
<p>Inspecting the man as if he might have his secrets written on his person, Director Tann comes closer to Addison, leaning in, murmuring, “Did you do a background check?”</p>
<p>“Of course.” She answers sharply, “Just a regular blue collared engineer. Released from stasis a few weeks ago. Nothing but a few pictures sent out to Kadara to a basic line.”</p>
<p>“To Kadara…” Director Tann repeats with a dawning awareness, eyes finding Rob with intensity that is only broken by the door opening again. </p>
<p>William Spender saunters in, omni-tool open, pinched brow highlighted in orange, “What’s this meeting about, we all know Operations is busier than ever.” His dark eyes glance to Rob who flinches, ducking down, “Who the hell is that?”</p>
<p>“We’re waiting for a few more members of the party and we’ll tell you what this meeting is about.” Addison says and then offers a chair to the man, “Have a seat, it’ll be just another minute.” </p>
<p>Spender sighs out of his nose, dropping into the chair, “As you’re well aware, Addison, I’m not one to do overtime just because you’ve allotted a random meeting in the middle of the day.”</p>
<p>“Noted.” She says coldly, looking to the door. </p>
<p>Kandros, Ryder and his teammates Vetra and Drack step in after another long tense moment of silence. Removing his cap in professional respect, Ryder greets his superiors and Addison nods him an acknowledgment and frees him from attention. </p>
<p>Drack comes further into the room, grabs Kesh’s arm when she rises from the desk and says in what could be considered a considerate whisper from a Krogan, “Has this desk gotten bigger or am I just seeing things?”</p>
<p>Flashing her teeth, Kesh replies, “It’s your age showing. Good to see you.”</p>
<p>“You know, I worry about you here on your own.”</p>
<p>So his granddaughter squeezes tight one last time, “You protect the Pathfinder and keep the Kett busy. We will all do our part. I’ll be fine. But..” She glances across the people in her office, “Be careful. I only have one of you.” Fondness settles in her gaze and Drack steps back, satisfied. </p>
<p>Ryder looks directly at Rob, making the man’s camera on his uniform jolt but there is nothing but simple observation from the Pathfinder, nothing to hint at suspicion and he turns his gaze away when Addison begins.</p>
<p>“We have some serious allegations to address today. But first, we can’t have civilians present during these discussions. Please, tell us your business.” She says to Rob who puts his hand into his pocket, surrounded by the eyes of power and influence and shakily reaches it out to Ryder. </p>
<p>“I’m supposed to give this to you.” </p>
<p>Ryder puts out his hand, the ear piece sharp against his white glove. Looking around the room, nobody moves so Vetra takes the Pathfinder’s cap and lets him put the earpiece in. Clicking it on, he tests, “This is the Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t think you’d be finished with me, did you?”</p>
<p>Rob doesn’t move, standing, watching the Pathfinder and Ryder’s pupils dilate momentarily, a response he’ll never be able to overpower and he swallows minutely, steeling his facials. He doesn’t say anything, surprise evident and waits for Reyes to make his point. </p>
<p>“I want to be a part of this meeting. I believe I have the right to it. Excuse my middle man for me, won’t you?”</p>
<p>“Well, who is it, Pathfinder?” Tann speaks up, impatient to the unknown and Ryder clears his throat, glancing to the Director before saying, “You can go.” To Rob. </p>
<p>Mission complete, Rob breathes, takes his camera off with a sharp tug and throws it into the can beside Kesh’s desk making Drack glance into it curiously. He leaves the room, long strides on his slender legs, free of a pursuing shadow and happy enough to run from it. </p>
<p>“Tell them who it is, Ryder.”</p>
<p>The tense silence tells of the many questions the man wants to ask, fights not to let loose in the presence of those with political keys to cages and doors but finally Ryder has his wits collected. He raises his voice to make the announcement. </p>
<p>“It’s the Charlatan.” </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>The initial wave of reaction was disbelief, followed by thinly veiled disdain. Director Tann refused to acknowledge the presence of a crime lord in an official hearing and Addison, disgusted by the audacity shared a common opinion. Refusing to play immediately into the trap set, Kesh stayed silent, one not quick to stand on either side until seeing the full playing board. </p>
<p>Vetra finally speaks up, “Let’s hear the Charlatan out. There is a reason they’re making contact now.”</p>
<p>“This is a crime!” Addison bursts back, “And not something you, Vetra Nyx, faithful boatsman of the black-market river, should stick her nose into!”</p>
<p>“Not quite a crime yet, just an ear piece.” Drack comments gruffly in immediate defense of his teammate, “I think looking at the reasons we’re here today,” His typically cooled and untroubled expression hardens, “We should make some exceptions.” A warning in tone, the Nakmor clan promises the trouble the case can bring and Addison immediately folds, hyper aware that the issues of security on her outpost might’ve very well led to the very narrowly dodged disaster. </p>
<p>“Fine, I- I correct my stance and say we- we should hear the Charlatan out.” Addison retracks, high pride unrelenting but careful in her next steps. The devastation that would follow a falling out with New Tuchanka looms over her conscience and at the very least over her numbers and her position as a leader.</p>
<p>“Director Addison!” Director Tann balks, but she ignores him, and calls in the requested items, a screen to wheel in and a place to catch a signal. Reyes waits in Ryder’s ear until he catches the new signal and transfers his audio to the screen, keeping it black for now, until evidence is begged for and power absorbing. But he can see the entire room at this position and, sipping his whisky, rides the high of patience and relevance. </p>
<p>From the privacy of contained secrets, he masks the voice recognition, a dark, ominous computer speaking on the other side. </p>
<p>“Formally, I address the Initiative for the first time and give my warm welcome to a relationship with the Collective.” </p>
<p>The room is smothered in tension, Spender sitting now with a stiffness akin to concern, omni-tool going unclosed but untouched as everyone watches a new and unexpected leader step into their council and take seat at a chair they didn’t notice at their table. </p>
<p>“You’re.. the Charlatan?” Addison says, her tone the question, a confirmation she is meeting someone who has spent the stretch of their development in the light beneath on the darkside of their figurative moon, just as massive but not as obvious. </p>
<p>“Hello, Director Addison.”</p>
<p>She pales, green eyes steeling in examination for threat. For the longest time her relations with exiles and personalities against the grain were a distant thundercloud, one as painful as the nightmares of the Scourge but furthering with every success. An old friend made enemy rears its head, and guilt sours the expression, only contained by a well-crafted exterior. </p>
<p>“You should know we won’t be acknowledging any demands made by blackmail!” Director Tann exclaims, rigid, attempting for control and Reyes smiles, “The blackmailer is sitting right there in that office with you, Director Tann.”</p>
<p>All eyes move to Spender who glances across each face. </p>
<p>“So what Aroane was saying..” </p>
<p>“You people aren’t serious!” Spender half laughs, finding his footing, unfolding his legs, “You’re going to believe a man paid to move rock around illegally and a computer? Where’s the actual accountability? You’ve searched my files, and?” He prods, staring hard at Addison daring her to accuse him of something she doesn’t have the ground for and, cornered with his pressing, she answers reluctantly, “Nothing of suspicion..”</p>
<p>“Classic Nexus leadership! What’s next, you’re going to tell me I’ve been using funds improperly?”</p>
<p>Kesh’s brows immediately fold at that, an old feud being thrown into the mix waiting to be dissolved alongside the bigger issues. </p>
<p>“I should make claims of emotional distress against you all-“</p>
<p>“Interesting you should talk about improper usage of funds.” The computer steps into the conversation, cutting the man off and pinching his expression, “Do you know where I am, William Spender?”</p>
<p>The camera turns on, the screen coming on to a pretty living room beneath plentiful natural light. The focus of the shot is what makes the man pale, a sickly color flooding the flesh of his cheeks, shock evident. “I believe you know what that is on the table.”</p>
<p>The scrambler flashes its red light off and on, indicating activity, waiting for the recognition. </p>
<p>“A scrambler..” Addison breathes out like it might be her final one, suddenly understanding why they hadn’t found even one suspicious email or message despite the irrefutable number of claims against Spender. </p>
<p>“It’s one to a pair, isn’t it?” </p>
<p>Spender’s mouth is left open, but he has none of usual irritable pettiness.</p>
<p>“Where might the other be, William?”</p>
<p>Before an order to search any of Spender’s belongings can even begin, he jumps up, racing to grab someone else to join him in his fall, maybe even shield his landing, “I’m not the only one affiliating with exiles and criminals inappropriately!”  </p>
<p>“Excuse me?” Addison says and he taps violently on his omni-tool, bringing up a picture, expanding it by his fingers so all can see a photo taken at Sloane’s party in the storage room with their bodies too close for professionalism and their hands literally caught in the figurative cookie jar, whiskey bottle and box of said stolen item obvious. It is just at the angle that one can’t see Reyes’ face but Ryder’s… Ryder is smiling, expression disclosing emotional connection and an obvious, stunning affection for the wrong side.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Limitations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Motivations make the man, and the faults.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“For God’s sake someone grab Ryder!” </p>
<p>“What the fuck! You can’t- get off me- you can’t hit the Assistant Director of Colonial Affairs!” </p>
<p>“Swing through, kid! What? Don’t look at <em>me</em> like that- augh, fine, I got it.”</p>
<p>Drack’s big arms pull Ryder back, full bodied and strong, a sharp contrast to Spender’s limbs scrambling for better distance and to get up off his backside, vulnerable and pressing a hand to a bloodied mouth. He’s got eyes accusatory, wrathful, and with his free hand he shoves himself standing with the help of his chair.</p>
<p>“First, you accuse me and then this souped-up soldier with a computer for a brain attacks me. Do you think I’ll just quietly let all this go under the radar? And what the hell, Kandros, what kind of security leader are you?” Blood slips from his lips and Spender has to take a moment to catch himself, drooling red, giving Addison a moment to breathe. </p>
<p>“Pathfinder,” She begins, but there lacks the angled quality to her usual voice, likely still the surprise taking the edge off, “Step out, cool your head.” </p>
<p>Ryder’s got enough control he’s managed to uncurl his free hand from the infamous fist, his breathing settled and he looks across the faces seeming as if he might want to say something, maybe defend himself, but he thinks better of it, takes his cap from Vetra and walks out with her following after giving Drack a glance. He’s still wearing the earpiece, and when the door closes, Ryder lets out a long, heavy sigh, all the tension wearing him down. </p>
<p>“Don’t tell Cora.” He implores, asking a favor of a friend who graciously agrees, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”</p>
<p>They stand in silence a moment longer, a place maybe never before having the circumstance to invite the concern of anyone but the man who threw his entirety into a punch and left the side of his faithful companion of self-control. Vetra tests the waters, “Was that .. Vidal?” </p>
<p>Ryder expresses plenty merely by his lack of answer, but he doesn’t wait for commentary, trying to escape the examining eyes of even his closest companions, “Since I’ve got this moment-“</p>
<p>“Ryder-“ She begins, but there’s communication in the places unseen and she lets him offer excuse, “I’m going to visit Sara, and-“ Maybe it pains him to say it, to bite his tongue in a certain manner, “Cool my head.” So, she lets him, giving him the space and regard, not demanding an explanation and forcing pride out of its seat. Instead she returns to the office, the meeting moving on without the Pathfinder, although not for lack of his involvement across the board of relevant issues. Political relevance and no final say, he exists for the Initiative and not the other way around. </p>
<p>Addison is offering Spender a handkerchief, the man continuing on, “It should be obvious that AI infused egomaniac is actually in cahoots with the exiles. Look, he makes allies with people who clearly have their feet in the waters.” He indicates to Vetra from behind the cloth and, brow lowering, intention clear, he says with vile pride, “Let’s not forget how he acknowledged the Paradise, and took meeting with Sloane Kelly who had everything to say about blowing up the Nexus in retaliation. He’s got guilty written all over him.”</p>
<p>Kandros, unfolding his arms finally steps in, “Speculation put aside for the moment, since we’re… entertaining leads,” He stares at Addison who might’ve flushed at the cheeks several years prior to his tone, “I think we should first confirm whether this ‘Charlatan’ is giving us anything of value. We can throw around accusations all we want, but the proof is either there or it’s not. I’m going to send a team to sweep your apartment, Spender and if we find the scrambler then we go from there. And I don’t think we should let ‘Rob,’ if that’s even his name, wander freely after he managed to get this far.”</p>
<p>Glowering behind the stained kindness, Spender could’ve just as very well been biting his lip in frustration. Misinformation layered atop the emotional, his blurred lines and dodgy tactics still leave him in the maze of his own faults, a long, winding twist of lefts and rights that puts him at a dead end created by leftover footprints. He was the lead to Kadara, the first reason for contact and even if Ryder won’t be physically present for his fall from performative grace, the Charlatan will gladly cut the man down, and put to rest a file created months ago. </p>
<p>Director Tann presses a calming hand down his front, as if trying to smooth figurative wrinkles, “Spender so help me when the truth comes out that you’ve been prying good resources from the Nexus and providing top secret information to the Outcast..” For all of his mild-mannered skepticism and disdain, the Salarian’s disgust is palpable and harsh, a chemical burn sizzling in the open air, and Spender settles into his guilt like a chilled bath with nothing left to say. </p>
<p>Kandros gets on his omni-tool, sending message, and Kesh stands from her desk, “If there really is a security threat, would the Charlatan use that to their advantage?” It’s her first acknowledgment of him and it speaks to an already developed respect. She sees the Krogan in survivors, whether they’re a different race or not and her tone reveres endurance even if it can just as well be hostile, or maybe so because it is entitled to be hostile that she finds the place to be considerate. </p>
<p>Reyes sits back, hearing in his other ear the footsteps and travel of Ryder, and says, “Are you asking if there are active Collective agents currently on the Nexus?”</p>
<p>“To put it bluntly, yes.” </p>
<p>“Not anymore.”</p>
<p>Kandros confirms his men in the background, murmuring his orders, keeping the public from viewing a spectacle sure to start a quick, low burning fire of rumor and question. </p>
<p>“One man.”</p>
<p>“One hired messenger.”</p>
<p>She’s trying to map his route, figure his gains, and Addison watches with intensity, half in her head, half trying to find herself not teetering toward the edge of failures ready to ripple by her fall. Why now, Kesh’s eyes ask before her mouth does. </p>
<p>“Wouldn’t it benefit the Initiative to know of active threats heading their direction? Sloane was preparing for war here on Kadara, a war promoted and organized by your Assistant Director of Colonial Affairs. The same man who tried to sharply decline the number of Krogan and distract the Initiative before the Outcast attack.”</p>
<p>“That kind of tip is life saving.” Kesh says, careful, cautious, “And quite a hefty favor.”</p>
<p>“It would be if it were a favor. I’ll sell you the information. All the details and dealings that Spender has done on and with Kadara and all the data for Sloane’s plans.”</p>
<p>Director Tann slams his fist on the table, “This is your problem, Addison, you trust too easily. Too quickly! Why would you allow this person access to our situation? Now we’re being cornered!”</p>
<p>“You think just forcing everyone further away from us by distance is going to fix the problem?” She snaps back, coming alive, able to pursue argument with her equal, “The problem would still be there, Tann, we would just know less about it!” </p>
<p>“If any of it’s even true. Fear mongering has become a tactic I loathe to even say.” </p>
<p>Kandros steps forward, sighing with reservation, and he folds his arms, expression serious, hard, all angles, “They’ve confirmed the scrambler.”</p>
<p>Addison presses a hand to her forehead, grief evident in her expression and Spender grits his teeth, grinding away the final curling layers of his innocence, “They threatened to kill me if I didn’t offer them the assistance. I did what I had to, to survive, to keep this place afloat.”</p>
<p>“Oh, is that what the scrambler will reveal? Logs and communications full of threats? Or will they be all the proof that you’ve been altering files, stealing supplies and doing deals with Initiative information?” Drack steps up, voice a growl, “Aroane already confessed you hired him, not the other way around.”</p>
<p>Shifting his eyes across Drack to Addison, then to Kandros, Spender mutters, “We <em>all</em> wanted the Krogan gone. I just made it easier. I did what we needed to do. We don’t have the resources to feed the mouths that are demanding food. If the exiles already have their hands dirty, why not have them do what we all know needs to happen? I’m just protecting the upper layer. The violence that the Krogan were promising a year ago wasn’t going to let the Nexus survive, they were killing left and right-”</p>
<p>“God dammit!” Addison explodes, “Right under our noses, Spender?! And I <em>let</em> you do it. I let you blind me with the prejudices and fuel already known biases.” The emotion sizzles out in restrained guilt and harsh pain, and she grips hands into tight fists, “All your spiteful insults against the very exiles you were providing the guns to.”</p>
<p>“What, you’re going to do deals with them and pretend you’re better than me? I did us right, look at how we prosper. You can’t seriously believe the Charlatan’s going to give anything that I couldn’t give you.”</p>
<p>“They were right about your scrambler.”</p>
<p>“I had to scramble the files, otherwise, how would I make the exiles believe I was on their side? It’s good politics.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got an excuse for everything. It doesn’t make it right. You knew Director Tann would be weak to criticism of the Krogan and you used that to your advantage. You knew I…” Her shoulders sharpen, curling in, “I wouldn’t want to throw out another person from Operations after..” Putting a quick finger beneath her nose, she collects her emotions, sniffs faintly, and says, “You knew all about Sloane Kelly. You’re likely using her too.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s voice catches Reyes’ attention, soft, vulnerable, “Hey Sara…”</p>
<p>He hesitates, whisky touching that sensitive part of his blood but Addison is still talking and the opportunity to take the room again by surprise is rushing forward so he turns off the ear piece and resettles in the discussion. </p>
<p>“Sloane Kelly is no longer a threat to the Initiative, and the Outcast have been disbanded, a curtesy from the Collective. Maybe even a prepaid opportunity to jumpstart our relationship.”</p>
<p>“Ha!” Spender belts, “How would you know?”</p>
<p>“I killed her.”</p>
<p>The room falls again into dead silence, heavy, like the weight of thunder in a heavy cloud. Where will the next lightning bolt strike lingers in question on all their faces. Kandros is staring hard, seeing the vitality of a threat growing swiftly, and Spender, busted lip and all gawks, then quickly, glancing to everyone else to make sure they didn’t see the raw surprise on his face, flattens the emotion, brow coming down hard. Addison looks pale, and terrible, and delicately, so not to draw too much attention, leans a hand on the desk for support.</p>
<p>“I would have- heard.” Spender finally says, but he’s lost his footing, his last defense- the chaos of one final hit on the Initiative to help him escape by the Outcasts. </p>
<p>Reyes accepts his game of dodging full truths and asks patiently, “And how would you know?”</p>
<p>“I was just there for colonial affairs. I have eyes. Paid eyes.”</p>
<p>Reyes puts up an image on the screen for them and it glows on their faces, the calm expression of death, the cooled color of bloodless cheeks, and the harsh reality to a mutineer’s reentry to their ship. </p>
<p>“My God..” Director Tann breathes, “What <em>do</em> you want?” </p>
<p>“Kadara Port has plenty of open space available for an outpost now thanks to the Collective.”</p>
<p>“Are you… blackmailing an outpost from the Initiative?”</p>
<p>“I’m sure there are plenty of journalists, some who just recently asked the Pathfinder about a certain woman in power dying, who would love to tackle this story and sell it to the masses. They’re already on the scent. How would it look to have it come out first somewhere else? How about Spender’s betrayal, his indifference to the common people dying to make sure the elite keep their cushioned seats?”</p>
<p>“We aren’t going to be barreled down for the demands of those who abandoned the mothership!”</p>
<p>“That’s such a negative way to think about it. It’ll benefit us both. You have an upcoming wave of stasis releases with hardly a job in sight and I have the open grounds of a perfect plot of land for mining and housing. We get the resources, the trade and you get to the be the heroes who weren’t exposed for allowing manipulation to happen on the bridge.”</p>
<p>“You expect us to send a team to negotiate to Kadara Port? There isn’t an ounce of safety there.”</p>
<p>“Not just any old team you can throw together. I’ll only finish negotiations with one person.”</p>
<p>“And who would that be?”</p>
<p>“The Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>He gives them a briefing of the footage on the moonyard, which correlates with Aroane’s story and the Pathfinder’s report and the details in the files from Sloane’s personal computer that allow Kandros to arrest Spender with a just cause, and even when he knows the leader of the militia is attempting to track his signal, Reyes merely feeds it back into itself, and lets frustration wane the effort. Glory descending on the room, the glow of the sun so warm and comforting, it in itself gold on his skin, Reyes basks in a victory so sweet he wishes he could have that certain someone stand before him and recognize it. </p>
<p>Instead there comes the ring of someone else at the door and Reyes closes all his connections to the Nexus, knowing they will need to pretend to come to the decision to send Ryder back to Kadara themselves to cover the fact that he took their queen and left their king exposed for the checkmate all by himself. </p>
<p>Lachlan has her helmet off, the bike parked, and she lightens at his casual answer of the door, whisky in hand, and mood greatly improved. She’s grown accustomed to his secrets, but asks with her eyes, which he refuses to acknowledge and lets her in. </p>
<p>“What is this place?”</p>
<p>“A bonus to hard work paying off.” Reyes answers, “How did the drop off go?”</p>
<p>She looks around, checking out the kitchen with shameless awe, “They were very thankful.” She says, half distracted, opening cabinets, “And offered this.” Flipping the small device up between two fingers, she extends it to him, “Their research on bedrock plants and soil formulas. Said if it can get more people better food, they want everyone to know.” </p>
<p>He takes it, the TV screen still flashing news but on mute in the background. </p>
<p>Nothing of interest in the refrigerator, Lachlan finally returns to him in the living room, and says, “Sorry I dropped your pistol back there.”</p>
<p>Chuckling, Reyes closes his omni-tool and says, “Come, have a drink with me. I’m celebrating.”</p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Late into the rich navies and white pale light of night, Reyes makes sure to hide his and Ryder’s exchanges behind the coverage of his alterations to the man’s omni-tool, a front, a file that appears to lead to nothing but holds everything, all the privacies and covers their tracks with a certain devotion he’ll never put into words. </p>
<p>Lachlan is asleep in the guest room, the door closed, and in the quiet of two cups empty but enjoyed, Reyes can relive memories of times when two glasses meant another presence. To focus, he begins to align his requests, the boundaries that will make sure he is the one putting walls around the military presence that will bring his world wealth and provide qualities he can’t claim elsewhere without removing his status. A message catches his attention and he glances at it and then doubles back at the name. </p>
<p>&gt;You haven’t contacted me.&lt;</p>
<p>Another one pings, &gt;Aren’t you worried about the photo?&lt;</p>
<p>He watches a third just saying his name pop up and decides to stop the barrage, thinking there is likely more to come. Standing, heading out onto the balcony, he calls, Ryder answering almost immediately. </p>
<p>“Didn’t know if you’d respond.” He says, voice heavy, a little thick on the vowels. </p>
<p>“Have you been drinking, Ryder?”</p>
<p>“This bottle could confirm that.”</p>
<p>“Do you expect me to answer your question?”</p>
<p>“Obviously, I’m drunk not half stupid.” </p>
<p>Reyes lights a cigarette, and looks at his moon, “Do you mean to ask if I’m bothered by being the man who seduced and earned the affection of one of the most politically relevant and powerful men in the galaxy who happens to be quite a handsome catch, and fantastic lay in bed? If that’s your question then not particularly.” He blows smoke. </p>
<p>Ryder is caught off guard, the reframe flush with flattery that rushes to his emotionally charged mind, but he manages and flares back up, “You could be outed for your rank!” </p>
<p>“Are you going to tell them?”</p>
<p>“Of course not.”</p>
<p>“Then I think I’m going to be okay.”</p>
<p>“And all of our emails? I’m being investigated.”</p>
<p>“There’s little chance your Initiative security advisors will find access to those.”</p>
<p>“What does that mean?”</p>
<p>“You’re entitled some privacy. Those are for just you and me. I made sure of that.”</p>
<p>Ryder breathes on the other line, muddled thought slower than usual. His sigh catches, the sound of him hitting a bed in the background. “I want to punch you so bad.”</p>
<p>“You’ll get your chance.” He says through his cigarette, “You’ll be back on Kadara soon enough.”</p>
<p>“You won’t be so smug once I hit you.”</p>
<p>“I like this side of you, it’s frank, if a little hostile.”</p>
<p>Ryder snorts, but his voice softens, dulling with a certain kind of bonelessness that comes from one drink too far, “Don’t get used to it, it’s only tequila talking. I don’t know why I called with everything going on…”</p>
<p>“You didn’t want to talk with me?”</p>
<p>Ryder lets out another sigh, “Don’t make me say it.” The silence settles, but only for a slow collection of thoughts and he murmurs, the emotion hard to pinpoint, “They’re threatening me with insubordination.”</p>
<p>“The Pathfinder? That won’t last.”</p>
<p>Ryder absorbs the idea, then breathes, heavy, “I don’t know what to do. I’m-…” He almost reveals himself, stops, but it barrels out of him, the drink making his mouth honest, “I’m not my father. I can’t do this. I’m barely managing as is with SAM’s help. I just lashed out today, and I had SAM’s blockers on.”</p>
<p>Reyes sits in the insecurity of a man with a world to uphold and the bloody knees to prove its weight, then puts out his cigarette, “Have one last drink with me.” </p>
<p>“I’m drunk enough as it is.”</p>
<p>“One more, Ryder.”</p>
<p>They pour, and Reyes listens to the sharpness of alcohol on the tongue and in the throat. “Turn off the lights. Lay down.” He throws back his own drink, a smooth sting that makes the moon shimmer just right. He waits for the settle of darkness. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to be responsible for everything, Ryder.”</p>
<p>A soft release of air, like the sensation of sinking into the comfort of a pillow after a long day.</p>
<p>“Let me lead for a little while.”</p>
<p>Reyes presses the earpiece even closer, satisfied with the heavy, relaxing breath on the other end, hearing his council, his word from the dark side of Ryder’s moon prove worthy and looked for and pacifying. A sedative, one better than the lonely bottom of a drink, maybe one Ryder shouldn’t seek out and yet against that better judgment, here he is and here they still are, undefined, and consoling against all the ways they normally exist, their mutual avoidance letting the usual boundaries between them fall away and leave a space for new rules. </p>
<p>He waits, and hears the descent into sleep, giving Ryder the necessary relief from circular thoughts and terrifying self-doubt, and for a long moment, just listens, awarded confidentiality in places he doesn’t deserve and for that there’s peace. Until he feels a whisper along his spine. Logging off, closing the call, he turns, looks over his shoulder into the dark windows of the safehouse and sees a pair of eyes looking back at him. The moonlight in them flashes, unblinking, and Lachlan slips back into the guest room, closing the door. </p>
<p>A chill rises from the ground below so Reyes steps inside and out from under the expanse of night sky, the open sea of space where he was just whispering into a lover’s ear like a letter in their modern lives with the moon as witness. </p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>The emergency signal blasts him awake and Reyes startles out of a dream, the final whisps of blood inside a helmet visor flashing against his mind before smudging into darkness and he answers the call. </p>
<p>“We’ve got unauthorized liftoff from the badlands. Entering the atmosphere.”</p>
<p>“What kind of ship?” </p>
<p>“A c-class transport with mods. It’s got stolen rockets.”</p>
<p>“Can we track its destination?”</p>
<p>Another message, red, in full letters comes up onto Collective comms. </p>
<p>&gt;EX-OUTCAST COMMANDER KAETUS MISSING FROM HOSPITAL&lt;</p>
<p>“Negative. It’s free flying.”</p>
<p>Reyes rolls out of bed, pushes his hair back, and yanks on his suit parts, zipping up as he presses his boots on. The silence of the house does nothing to alert him to something amiss but when he gets out the door, he realizes his bike is gone. </p>
<p>“Shit!” He curses and Makerix asks, “Should we pursue?”</p>
<p>An explosion erupts far off in the distance, and he looks across the badlands, wind whipping harshly across the uneven hills. </p>
<p>“We’ve got an explosion on the docks. Several fighter pilot ships are currently on fire. It’s rapidly expanding.”</p>
<p>A diversion? A separate attack? Communications are flying, and he asks, “Do we have the units on the docks to pursue?”</p>
<p>“Unable to confirm. The fire is raging, we’ve got a team trying to put it out now.”</p>
<p>“Send me a pick up at this location. Tell Batus to send a starship to track that transport as soon as he’s able.”</p>
<p>“Roger.” </p>
<p>Stepping back into the house, Reyes glances across the empty rooms, the guest room door open, and without occupancy. He has nothing left to do but wait, track the information coming in, and hope the pieces left are enough to make a picture. Lachlan’s omni-tool is dark, off, and he remembers from last night, through the alcohol two eyes staring at him from an unlit house. </p>
<p>A ping on his messages confirms Alejandro coming his direction and he stands in the pretty living room, the Nexus time a small clock in an upper part of his screen reminding him Ryder will be joining the leadership to discuss his demands in an hour and he is standing in chaos figuratively, although he is alone. Flipping on the TV, the first channel is a newscaster from the Nexus greeting the day, his hair slicked back, suit a melded blue with a dark tie, mid-sentence, “-confirmed tomorrow the Pathfinder will be available to the public for a short while, willing to take questions and offer his advice to those looking for his council. Lots of big meetings among the top officials today; will we be hearing more about near future plans for those scheduled for stasis release? And are there going to be any answers about Initiative entry to Aya for people other than those associated directly with the Pathfinder team for better trade? On another note, if you’re looking for a cheap meal during the lunch rush, there is a food station just picking up steam…”</p>
<p>Reyes tunes out the information irrelevant, seeing comms telling of the injuries, the burns of men and women licked by the fire, and casualties, two so far. Several ships have managed to take off in the chaos of it all, lacking proper clearance, the hot flames of gasses still burning keeping back Dalton’s team. Three ships in total, one unable to land, just coming down from entering the atmosphere when the bursting panels and raging puff of smoke forced them back into the stars. </p>
<p>Sharp, hot pain hits him in the back, and with a sudden rush, he feels something running in his suit, something wet. Looking over his shoulder into the black eyes of another person, he snatches the wrist of the woman who has a knife in his back but it twists the blade and pushes a grunt out of him, pain tearing deep. </p>
<p>Lachlan’s expression is chilled, but her eyes, the hardened gaze is rife with emotion, so many he doesn’t know what to read first but he takes that same hand on her wrist and yanks hard, pulling the knife free, pushing her back several feet. They wrestle over the blade, arm to arm but he has the advantage and rips it out of her hand, examining it, his own blood and then her. </p>
<p>She doesn’t apologize, even with her eyes, unflinching and slow, controlled she lifts her lips in a snarl of a smile, vicious to the bone. It rips her facials like a scar, an open wound of gnarled emotions and intentions. “You’re the Charlatan, aren’t you?” She says, “You’re the mastermind behind the whole Collective.”</p>
<p>He can feel the wound aching, pulsing with blood, slowing him, but he holds the pinch that would naturally come between his brows although it demands effort, the tip of the knife gleaming like a fang that knew the vulnerable part of his suit, predator and prey. He takes a step and Lachlan retreats one. The one place unchecked, the bathroom, sits in its own simmering darkness as if proving menace. </p>
<p>“It wasn’t clear until I made it to the Nexus with your help. You weren’t the average smuggler. But what were you? Definitely someone with a far bigger reach than what you were fronting.”</p>
<p>He corrects his grip on the knife, watching her but she doesn’t falter, another step back to his forward. </p>
<p>“You were an elite amongst men. A message to all those who’ve only been in the right spot at the right time. All those pieces of shit pretending like their access to money is what sets them apart, makes them better. And to throw it all away for some rich boy’s pocket? You could run circles around the Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>“You were listening last night.”</p>
<p>Her expression unfolds, grinning, pride in all of its deformities, “What kind of spy wouldn’t be listening? You taught me that. I can’t let the Collective collapse because you’ve twisted your priorities. It’s everything I’ve needed. It’s proof that it doesn’t matter where you come from as long as you know where you want to end up. He’ll be the destruction of what you’ve built. All these opportunities to take back what we’ve deserve and you want to make sure the Pathfinder is secure, cushy in his seat. You’re feeding power back into that rotten system the Initiative fronts as leadership.”</p>
<p>Another step. </p>
<p>“He’s just a man. We’re talking about the entirety of planets, the universe! People like you and me don’t have to hide in the shadows because people like <em>him</em> want to play God!” </p>
<p>With a hyper awareness of the room, she glides fluidly around the coffee table, avoiding slipping up and moves further into the living room. “He doesn’t understand you. He can’t. People like him think they get it, suffering, but it’s all just a performance. It’s all above the masses. Sure, he feels bad people die, but he still gets the credit for everything done below him while we all go into unmarked graves. He’ll get his name on the missions won, the places conquered. Does he know our names? Does he know?”</p>
<p>He knows my name. Reyes steadies his breath, each one a bruise inside his lungs, and lunges forward, slamming her into the glass of the balcony door. It cracks but doesn’t break, and they tumble to the floor, rolling but he manages to land on top, arm arched above to stab only halted because she holds it back, keeping him at bay with a steady arm. </p>
<p>She has blood on her lips, her eyes softening, “I loved the Charlatan who pulled me out of that wretched hole the Nexus put me in.” Lachlan whispers, “I loved you.” A confession for a way of life he knows they shared, it settles like infection on an open wound, reminding him of the unavoidable truths in his closet he’ll always carry. “You were everything I wanted to be.” Her fingers touch his face, all the small intricate rituals coming to life again, her arm weakening. She tries to force him to miss, stab the floor and give her chance to escape but he doesn’t waver and a slight, knowing smile touches her lips, “There he is. The man who wouldn’t hesitate. I was-“ Her wrist wavers, the blade descending, “Going to become you. Uphold our way of survival. You-“ The blade at her throat, she swallows but faces him, “Can’t be someone like him. They’ll never let you in.” </p>
<p>It pricks her skin, and finally, she sees in his eyes, her final moments and lets the knife plunge down, blood immediate against her tongue, rushing upward, a fountain, and she offers one final long look before he draws the blade and frees her from the torture of injury. Her hand releases his, and the life fades. </p>
<p>He coughs, and his wound holds him down, blood everywhere, staining the floor beneath and giving his gloves a dark color. Needing a moment to touch the stabbing pain in his back, breathe, claim the mortal limits of his body for only him and the defeated to see, Reyes doesn’t move. Cold is settling beneath his skin, but he manages to stand, heavy footed, and step over Lachlan’s limbs to reach the bathroom. </p>
<p>Ignoring the vision of his situation in the mirror, he pushes through the medicine cabinet, finds some medi-gel and adds it to his omni-tool, letting it distribute, rush adrenaline into his blood and stop the bleeding enough to prevent him from collapsing. He grips the counter, gives the man in the reflection an examination, the eyes, the set of his mouth and fixes his hair with patient hands. Each strand, every imperfection, then with one fluid, resounding motion, he smashes the glass with a fist before turning off the lights and stepping out. Shards clatters behind him, along with the faint siren of a faraway crisis, reverberating, over, over and over.</p>
<p>When Alejandro finds him, smoking on the balcony, he has to step over the body in the living room with its face covered by a towel and open the glass to the outside. </p>
<p>“You didn’t tell me it was a clean-up as well.”</p>
<p>Reyes only looks at him, finishing the cigarette with one long, strong drag before dropping it onto the ground and crushing it under a boot. He releases the smoke with slight pauses in between, lets the taste settle in his mouth and says, “It wasn’t when I called.”</p>
<p>“You want me to grab the body?”</p>
<p>“No,” He says distinctly, “That’s a personal job. Let’s go.” </p>
<p>The docks whirl with noise, engines loud, rumbling, the tossing of air overhead and against their bodies. There are layers of documentation everywhere, Makerix out of her usual seat and on the ground with her team, the scorch marks dragging the dock in jagged fingers. Photos have been taken, of the fires, after the fires and the body count and who they’ve lost has been accounted for. Seven people killed, two dock workers, a guard, and four soldiers. Their bodies collected, cause of death is still being analyzed although there is suspicion that some are not from the explosion. He can’t make direct contact, so he steps through the picture as a silent observer, the stain of smoke against metal harsh on their docks.</p>
<p>Batus managed a scouting ship with record time but the uncertainty is evident. Still no logged destination, is the stolen transport simply aiming for another world by instinct or hoping they won’t need to refuel before their pursuers give up trying to follow? Reyes throws down a shot, Ryder’s meeting already started, time moving without hesitation and he breathes out once slow. He needs to see the explosion for himself, needs to sit in one of his offices and examine the details, something else he hasn’t seen yet, something-</p>
<p>“You look like shit, you know.” </p>
<p>He gives a glance upward, and goes to push himself off the counter, leave the bar, only needing the quick fire to lessen the ache after examining the scene with his own eyes. The room quakes, but distance tunnels all sensation and he doesn’t realize he’s on the floor until he hears her again.</p>
<p>“Jesus, Vidal! Someone call a medic!” Umi’s voice booms over him, the ceiling swirling, and blackening, caving in until there’s nothing above him but the weight of his own body. And then sweet silence. </p>
<p>When he wakes in the medical unit, Dr. Nakamoto is sitting by his bedside, monitoring a datapad, white coat clean with a crisp, finely folded collar. He strokes his cheek, reading, frowning in concentration, filing the lines into his face but when Reyes sits up, he cuts his attention with a practiced ease. </p>
<p>“I guess Ho-sook spoke too soon about something happening, huh?”</p>
<p>“How long have I been out?” Reyes sighs, thankful for the numb spread of painkillers and the tight hold of bandages around his middle. He presses his hand back up into his hair, and starts to remove the IV, only stopping when Dr. Nakamoto offers, quickly putting a hand out. </p>
<p>“Not as long as you should be. Four or five hours. I’m surprised you were just out walking around. And what were you doing having a drink when you’d been stabbed?” His dry fingers are nimble, and don’t show any signs of hesitation, the datapad tucked under his arm. Examining eyes try to meet his gaze but even if Reyes were to allow him the contact, he would find the hard wall of a boundary unrelenting to question. </p>
<p>Instead, he stands, moving around the doctor, pulling up his body suit, grabbing his items, and exacting his uniform, his bloodstained gloves and omni-tool full of contact. </p>
<p>“Vidal.”</p>
<p>“I’ll pay back the medical expenses later.” He says, testing his will power, finding it ample and walks from the office, checking his omni-tool with the doctor following, “Vidal! Your stitches-”</p>
<p>Dodging men and women in the hallway, he sees Ryder’s about to go into his conference, the table positioned, a crowd already formed and rumbling with conversation and talk, cameras and video at multiple angles ready for all the shots. Several guards are waiting in the corners, around the ropes that ensure nobody is to get too close and protect the security of the scene. This is a place near the militia offices, not far from Operations, with ample space to allow those still working or passing by to continue on but also allow the number of people to grow as expected. High coverage in the office windows, and eyes watching, coincidence is absent for their proximity to Kandros’ department. </p>
<p>The live feed has started but the Pathfinder is nowhere to be seen, and Reyes flicks the video away, wooziness catching his stride and slowing him. He puts a hand to the wall, and sees Makerix has reviewed the footage of the dock security, picking the important parts out. </p>
<p>A limping Turian moving through the docks, accessing a locker, and pulling out a device. He moves around the cargo wheeling in and out until a Collective agent approaches him, stiffens, realizing who he is and goes to whip out a gun, only to have his temple cracked by the device with a swing from Kaetus. He collapses, limp on the ground, and when other guards yell out to him, Kaetus tosses the device into the depths of several ships and jumps into the c-class transport, very aware of its placement. He lets it drift off the docks, falling downward towards the badlands with men following swiftly. The trigger is activated, blowing hot fiery smoke into a whirlwind and starts the chaos of destruction. But what catches his attention, is who gets on the second ship that leaves the docks after the burning had consumed two pilot ships. </p>
<p>Knight, despite the fire, the shouting and terror of flame, gives the docks a final sweeping glance. He can’t see her expression, the camera quality too low, but she is the last person loading onto the ship and finally, with a sense of determination set in her steps, she gets out of the way of the door and it pulls closed, eliciting the final takeoff measures. Hours ago, Knight left these very docks and he is vividly aware of her destination. </p>
<p>The alleyways are dark, dim, but welcome him, and he finds his way down familiarity, messaging Crux to get back in contact with the Nexus. </p>
<p>Notification pings, the Pathfinder sitting in his conference, smoothing down his jacket with his good arm. He shows a wonderful flash of his teeth, speaking low to Cora who sits beside him, and she, with a certain air of favor that is both mature and completely newly developed returns an expression befitting of a second in command who is trying to keep a handle on a variety of situations with grace. On his other side is Drack, but in the background for a flash is Kandros and Director Tann steps up for the final chair on one side as well as Addison on the other side. She sits, cameras flashing but the Director announces the opening. </p>
<p>“We welcome the Pathfinder to a glorious return to the Nexus and with some announcements for further development, we also invite the public to engage with the Initiative leadership.”</p>
<p>Addison calms the rise of noise, clapping and aroused voices, and says, “Thanks to the Pathfinder we have found outposts across the universe. These have not been easy to establish, not with the staggering number of threats ready to eliminate even the very will of our project. But we’re stronger than that. We’re stronger than all of our tragedies and we’ll find new places to put down our roots.” She betrayingly glances to the side, to Ryder, “And we’ve got our next place in mind. It’s been a.. widely debated world with a diverse set of.. situations going on. Negotiations continue on to put an outpost on Kadara.”</p>
<p>Journalists rise to press closer to the information, speakers flying up, questions barging forward, the news massive, a wave against the shores of change. She doesn’t falter to the reaction, expecting such and waits for the guards to smother the outburst, jaw set, hands folded exactly on the table. </p>
<p>Director Tann sits unmoving, like a stone. </p>
<p>“We understand this is a big announcement, and you’ll have your questions. But until negotiations are finished on Kadara, we’ll be keeping the details for another time. No further questions will be answered until the Tempest returns to Kadara Port and the proper connections are made.”</p>
<p>There is protest, plenty, and Ryder even gives a sympathetic pinch of the brow to the demands for even a fraction of information, statements flying to earn even just a bit more, criticisms and possibilities, wild projections merely for the sake of denying or confirming, if to get anything from the panel. </p>
<p>“Are you negotiating with the Outcasts or not?”</p>
<p>“Does this mean the Initiative acknowledges the exiles as an official group?”</p>
<p>“How can we say we will be safe on such a planet?”</p>
<p>Waiting until the people realize there will truly be no forcing the Initiative out of their position, Director Tann says, “Instead, until we satisfy those curiosities about a new outpost and its benefits, we allow questions to the Pathfinder, who has been on the field since the beginning and our very first success on Eos. The future is very relevant, and we have no intentions of keeping the people in the dark, but for today, are there any questions about other subjects?” Beneath the surface, they’ve held important meetings letting criminals make the demands, arrested their own people, put Ryder on the cutting block and threatened to clip his wings but here it is all pretty uniforms and mission focused, the pamphlet of the Initiative always ready even when the blood of their own project is stained, dirty. </p>
<p>Hands fly up. </p>
<p>First there is a question about the Remnant, about their presence, and their relevance to society. Ryder is forward thinking as usual, speaking on their advancement, their adaptability and possible connections to an ancient civilization, all things positive and nothing based in fear, his answer leads to other questions that allow for the hero’s quest to appear possible, even exciting again until a hand further back raises up. </p>
<p>A woman stands, and Reyes feels his already sunken stomach drop away. </p>
<p>“I have a slightly different question.”</p>
<p>&gt;We’re on hold, waiting for the secretary to put us in contact with the Director.&lt;</p>
<p>Ryder looks at the woman, her ponytail and dark blue suit but doesn’t see the threat that Kadara’s leader knows all too well. She narrows her eyes on him, and strange silence settles along the conference air. </p>
<p>“Do you know about the devastation caused by the project Overlord, Pathfinder?” Knight asks, and her tone is as sharp as the knife she is figuratively holding to Ryder’s throat, against all the most powerful Initiative’s players knowledge.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Bruises and Lashes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Whether it's safe or not, Kadara calls them back.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy New Year! Hope everyone is staying safe.</p>
<p>I wanted to say that the confrontation scene between Cora and Ryder in this chapter is inspired and developed out of a scene written by the brilliant and extremely talented  <a>aiIenzo</a> who has written some of the most inspiring and foundational pieces for this work and is a seriously talented creator. Everything I've done up till now has been gifted with their presence and their words. So much growth for me is thanks to them!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Pathfinder’s unawareness is evident in his expression, and he glances to Cora who is also testing her knowledge, uncertain of the direction of the question and more so the vague test Knight is holding before countless witnesses. Murmurs buzz across the crowd, Knight standing like a beacon, firm, unyielding.</p>
<p>“I’m unfamiliar with the project.” Ryder admits, and Knight, emotion strung tight in her temple, looks a different person, another self within the self coming out, a version created out of a deep suffering and intention. She turns her gaze onto Director Tann then to Addison, testing their guilt, weighing it like a judge, a scale in their deception.</p>
<p>“Unfamiliar.” She says the word, tasting its flavor, examining its weight against the sin, and decides it lacking, “Is everyone on the board unfamiliar with this project?” She doesn’t give the rest of them time to answer, finding the son of a creator worth at the very least an opportunity to admit he is victim to a parent’s craft over hired positions in the wheels of a system, “Despite it being undeniable proof that merging consciousness with AI is a disaster just waiting to happen?”</p>
<p>If the board was attempting to avoid a scandal by voicing official decision to make negotiations on Kadara before the Collective could expose the corruption and the Charlatan’s strong arming, they only avoided one issue for another. Initiative performance reliant on the crowd only knowing enough to believe nicely crafted words was unprepared for a challenge and people are turning over their shoulder in order to hear her out, knowledge pouring out against the judgment of those in charge.</p>
<p>“The human mind can easily and suddenly be overwhelmed by the stress and presence of an ever expanding and growing interface attached to the body. Something inhuman but deceptively wearing a ‘face’ and name shouldn’t be allowed such broad and immediate access. SAM is not a companion to the Pathfinder but a virus implanted like a ticking time bomb waiting for one layer of corruption, one imbalance in their hybrid existence to implode the entire Nexus.”</p>
<p>Some people are standing, the feed rolling, and Director Tann, before he can say anything, is being pulled off to the side for an emergency message by his secretary who is breathing heavily having just run from his office. What was just a grand motivational rallying is now ominous, ambiguously dangerous and ticking quickly toward a terrible and ironic platform for anti-Initiative propaganda.</p>
<p>“SAM is just a front, an easy name to make it digestible. You’re in danger, Pathfinder, for a takeover and so is this entire universe. Nothing can stop artificial intelligence once corruption sets in and the Initiative is using it in their soldiers, despite the risks and critical proof from a previous project to back all this up.”</p>
<p>Director Tann whirls around, and commands, pointing, “Capture her! She intends to do the Pathfinder harm-!”</p>
<p>Realizing she’s been exposed, the crowd startles away from her, people jerking as she lifts a box, and shouts through the noise, Kandros coming up on stage, arm outstretched, willing to put his body in front of Ryder if necessary, “I won’t let this universe make the same mistakes!” She presses the button, and Ryder, who is standing, quick to react to even the slightest shifts in situations, buckles at the knees.</p>
<p>Protests, horror and concern explodes from the people watching their hero collapse on stage and through the throngs of people moving, nobody is able to pull their weapon, the possibility of an accident too high. She moves in the chaos, vanishing through the elbows and heads, and Kandros booms, “We have a terrorist on the Nexus! Don’t let her get away!” He is bent, holding Ryder’s limp body, his timing quick enough to catch him before he hit the ground.</p>
<p>Cora leaps over the table, gliding smoothly off the crafted stage to lift the board into easy visibility and into the people, following the swift retreat of dark hair. The cameras cut off, a crafted screen with the Initiative’s logo taking its place but the damage has been done.</p>
<p>Reyes sits, the sting muted, and draws up life out of his monitor, the safety of his small office in between worlds on Kadara giving him chance to think. Lachlan’s words echo like the damage of her blade, but not in the ignorance of his own conscience. As he rises in power, to such a level he can change the future, challenge entire militias, pull in resources thought inaccessible by the common hand and equally he will birth intentions, empower reaction, and not all of them will be in his best interest or in alignment with his convenience. As he erects pillars built to withstand a certain kind of erosion, the Pathfinder too will be given purpose to collapse foreign structures in order to give the Initiative room; they will only rock the other’s stability, the plot of land too small for both of them to comfortably situate. If Ryder tears something down, Reyes will inevitably build something else up. Everyone is looking to establish something for themselves, even if that something is destruction.</p>
<p>Two worlds then, they can be two worlds who align if just for one blinding moment in their rotations. A world can withstand a little devastation, scars on the land not preventing all growth necessary to become green.</p>
<p>Crux informs him the tip prevented any of Knight’s scientists, or as they were being called ‘terrorists’ into the Pathfinder’s quarters, lockdown stopping them at the first door. But they haven’t found Knight, and her signal is masked. She expected there to be resistance, even active measures to block her attempts to ‘save’ this universe and made sure to give herself the room to flee.</p>
<p>Her name flashes on his screen, and he settles on a symbolic perch above a wounded animal, a buzzard powerfully aware it will be the final interaction before bones become a meal. Breath gliding out, he thinks if there is anything as similar as the rush of corrective measures against chaos, he’s experienced it few times and some of them very recent. He answers the call, something tightening within him.</p>
<p>“Vidal!” She whispers, hushed, hidden, “I need the Collective’s help!”</p>
<p>“What’s happened?”</p>
<p>“The Initiative caught on faster than expected. We weren’t able to make contact with the interface on the Nexus-“ She stops talking abruptly, the sound of soldiers passing by on her omni-tool, boots on metal and orders ringing up into the ceiling.</p>
<p>“I need an escape route. We took the chance with the Pathfinder back on the Nexus to try for an attack and prevent unnecessary harm but it seems all I’ve managed is a momentary distraction. Damn!” She curses, reliving the moment, the brutal sting of failure, or a half success if she has actually severed the link between the Pathfinder and SAM, “Several of my scientists have already been arrested. How could they have known who we were? They’ve been blind to so many other things..” A click of her tongue threatens any other composure she might have and he hears faintly the noise of her changing positions, moving along to find a new place in hopes not to be discovered.</p>
<p>“And the Pathfinder?”</p>
<p>“What about him?” She responds, distracted, “He’s alive, I wouldn’t kill an innocent man. Now, his father on the other hand… Well, the universe handled that one for me I suppose.” Sighing, Knight settles into a new shadow, “They’ll reset his implant. I needed access to that goddamn interface!”</p>
<p>Reyes settles back into his seat, nerves cooled, edged fine, a blade now sharpened. If there is ever an opportunity to acknowledge indifference, he has it in his grasp, and just as easily he has the option to change nothing. Does he offer aid in the instance he will be rewarded with new skills, further opportunity for technological advancement, giving the Firefighters surefire loyalty to not only the Collective but Kadara, a home base in the dark, unforgiving cold of space? Does he acknowledge this to be bigger than two men in an ever-moving universe who happened to meet by chance? Or does he play wicked and pretend all his altered intentions line up with a new direction of operation? That this connection has just grown stale and he isn’t attempting to absolve something unsurmountable?</p>
<p>He has already given away her secrets, and silence is as much of an answer as an admittance if she could see past her assumptions.</p>
<p>“Vidal?”</p>
<p>The harsh hammer of the Initiative has detected her threat, its head stained with the blood of others who tried to reveal the imbalance, or benefit from the line drawn against hero and criminal. He gives her up, someone who touched him gently, welcomed him to a sanctuary, and not for benefit of status or advancement. Her voice holds ferocity, for a cause, for a place shared where a mother protected a child with a pot on the stove and dreams of a future. It contrasts this hard, ironed anger molded through experience into a weapon, where each person has to believe in something and she’s watching the world around her reject hers.</p>
<p>“Vidal!” She says, and his name seers, the low burning fire, her audio jostling as she moves through the hallways maybe toward the Pathfinder quarters, or possibly the docks, “Why? After everything?” The emotion beneath the words tells of affection for someone, a person who existed in her vision that is as much him as it could be another man, an angle maybe, or a mask of him, wearing his face, speaking in his voice, and capable of betrayal because he was capable of reliability and faithfulness. Her shock proves she expected to be the exception to his craft, to the man who built a world of spies, and not another victim of secrets and other plans.</p>
<p>“The Collective needs the Pathfinder.” He says, cruel to her but she won’t understand the meaning beneath the business, far too involved in his house of mirrors to see what he means, her distraction evident even in just the moment, as soldiers close in on her, her ponytail flipping around as she glances behind her.</p>
<p>Cora’s voice booms, “Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!”</p>
<p>“The Pathfinder is just another pawn in the system! Another cog in a bad machine! He can’t be free without us taking these necessary risks! You’ve got to understand! This is bigger than one man!”</p>
<p>“The Collective can’t offer any assistance currently, Knight. Our negotiations with the Initiative are too far along.”</p>
<p>“Vidal!” She says with more force than she might have if she had considered the men pursuing her but he cuts the line before they catch her on a call with him. If they catch her, they will confiscate her omni-tool and if she is smart, or if she is determined to keep her details private, she will destroy the device and leave them with nothing but an interrogation and whatever is left on her person. Even if his name leaves her mouth, infamy is not the same thing as relevance. He’s guilty of nothing obvious other than acquaintanceship and the Initiative will be far more focused on the Firefighters’ target on SAM than anything else. But all this measuring, this analytical weighing is merely performative objectivity and he knows this.</p>
<p>He made a choice with distinction to the consequences well aware he is not free of the stains either way. The minimum still weighs on the scale.</p>
<p>Sitting back, he taps a finger on his desk next to a box of cigarettes empty that he hasn’t thrown away yet and stews in the sensations of sacrifice. It’s become more than an obvious decision between life or death, the nuance deepening, the penalties suddenly important, a rulebook for two rather than one.</p>
<p>Silence stretches in the reflection, and so does physical pain.</p>
<p>Crux sends a message. &gt;Director Tann wants immediate contact when possible. He is leaving a line open with the secretary.&lt;</p>
<p>Reyes checks the signal, confirms it’s open and dials, making sure to alter his voice. The Director is quick to answer, likely in a fury with the constant blows against the smooth surface of the Initiative’s image.</p>
<p>“You’re going to explain this whole damned situation!” Tann says, firmly, defensively, like he’s been waiting on the line, tapping his foot petulantly. He wouldn’t be one to chase down threats and tackle them in the hallways, but his fury proves they know there’s to be issue moving forward, whatever cracks remain from the earthquake of insinuation still too fresh to tell how deep. It will be a gash to their foundation when the case hits the public and Knight’s claims are uplifted by her statis and history but even then it is still too new to know what will catch.</p>
<p>The Charlatan sits in the accusation, unafraid of what he already knows is nothing more than the same flavor of chaos that the Nexus banned people for reacting to. He doesn’t care about the Initiative’s branding, or their good name, and he isn’t worried he’ll lose a battle of wits with the Director who’s spent far more time in a spotlight for analysis than not. The Collective already has its hands around the throat of an outpost and it will be very hard to pry each finger off. Let the uniform be tarnished, so it will be that much easier to take off in due time. As long as the minimum keeps the players alive, he’ll survive blame.</p>
<p>Silence wards off some of the sharpness, but still the Salarian thinks his argument fits, “The timing is- it’s far too convenient for this whole attack not to be part of your extortion. You told us your demands and now in the possibilities we won’t answer, you send fanatics of anarchy.”</p>
<p>“I prevented the situation from getting worse. If anything, you should be grateful to the Collective. You’ve used plenty of our information to fight threats to the Nexus, not by any good will of the Initiative. We have little reason to attack the very person who we want to negotiate with.”</p>
<p>“If you think I don’t know a Kadara exile when I see one, you’re wrong. I’ll find the evidence putting this in your hands.”</p>
<p>As if ‘exile’ is a branding, a look in the face or a type of walk, like poor circumstances have a certain scent or attribute to the person, preconceptions sit between them. “You’ve already announced our deal. If the Collective hadn’t warned you of the terrorists’ intentions, you could’ve had a tragedy on your hands. It’s common knowledge by now that the Pathfinder is reliant on SAM. We’re graciously allowing you to run the narrative, but for a price.”</p>
<p>“The fact that you knew of these terrorists, you knew and yet we still had to react almost blindly to them proves your true intentions as well, Charlatan.”</p>
<p>Reyes sits in the reality of those words. “We sell information and contacts.” It’s always been at the cost of others and yet… “We sold you the information, what you do with it is all up to you.” The sharp edge of knowledge has drawn blood. “We could sit here all day and speak of other dangerous groups created from the poor foundations of this project, the one you now lead, but I prefer to remind you we dissolved the Outcasts, which was a far more antagonistic threat than a handful of scientists against artificial intelligence. That wasn’t a favor, Director. Your man provided the tools for those exiles, and was beckoning that battle.”</p>
<p>Director Tann hisses in a breath, the line quaking like he’s rocked the desk in frustration. He can’t escape the growing evidence that the Initiative can’t avoid the very criminals they have been trying to eradicate. That those very people thought harmful, vile, the bottom feeders of this transformed mission are just as necessary to survival and to handling the ever-changing atmosphere of space and its dangers. They can sell the dream, pretend its truth is here, just waiting for one to step into the spotlight, and that it is easy but everything worth anything has been built by those willing enough to sin and live with those red hands. Thriving in the fact that no matter how hated, no matter how vicious they are labeled, eventually the respect shows itself, even if it is coated in animosity, the exile can take pride in his label, one meant to shame. Hypocrisy tightens its noose in their already teetering positions.</p>
<p>The disgust for Andromeda bound people might’ve been startling if one didn’t know how invested Tann was in punishing the perceived guilty so forcing the Director to play by his own rules in a system made to make sure those abandoned fail is foolproof for results. He can either admit fault in the standards, draw attention to the chink in the Initiative’s armor to the growing strength of the common person or fold and double the defenses, allowing the criminal his place on the board until he has a better weapon of choice. For now he has nothing and far too many growing concerns piling up on his desk. No matter how hard he presses down the chaos with Ryder’s hands, it slips through.</p>
<p>If disillusionment created the first wave of exiles this powerful, then he should be afraid of another wave in the chance too much dissatisfaction arises with the Initiative so he concedes. Recognition even torn from unforgiving hands satiates a brutal and dark hole no matter the brevity.</p>
<p>“We expect an official and public announcement for the Tempest’s return to Kadara after you resolve your immediate safety concerns.”</p>
<p>“…This isn’t over. We haven’t signed anything. The Pathfinder will find your loopholes and we will have our defenses on your planet. This outpost is far from a surrendered resource.”</p>
<p>Reyes could almost laugh at that, but his wound is aching so deep he’s got a stiff growing numbness rising up his back. He wants off the call, and the crystal-like bluff, all clear reflections and fragility makes for a reasonable close to their conversation. Without realizing it, Tann’s revealed that despite their insistence for a formal investigation into Ryder’s personal life, they can’t not send their strongest soldier back to the field even with all the indications Ryder's lost his impartiality. He is their angel with red wings. They’ll accept the blurred lines if it means results. For now.</p>
<p>And for now is enough.</p>
<p>His bed welcomes him, exhaustion creeping into the corners of his psyche, fluttering consciousness and memory and fantasy all together- times when the cot was full, times when it wasn’t, times when even this place beneath the surface of the better of their society was supposed to tell of a cornered existence suddenly felt decent and completely lived in. The steam of a shower not his own, and a jacket hanging white and clean beside his now taken off the hanger to be worn once more. A whiskey bottle saved even though it’s empty and he isn’t one to keep artifacts.</p>
<p>The bed is warm, and the sheets are tight and he sleeps, first through the melting details of danger, a knife blade he can’t avoid gutting organs, testing his will to live, and a fall off the edge of a rusty moonyard dock, the reach of fingers not quite enough to prevent the tumble that sucks the bottom out of his feet and stomach. Rolling black space, a reminder that they are alone, and the collapse of a hero in a crowd by the demand of justice performed to satisfy old guilt that followed from a distant set of stars.</p>
<p>Dreams leave him, unchecked pain opening the doorway to nightmarish half memories that are all rooted in his recent traumas. The safehouse, darkened, a call from the Pathfinder left unanswered flashing endlessly and his blood on the walls, handprints, fingers dragging the corners looking black in the lightless rooms. He is collapsed, the floor cold, to the point of throbbing limbs and tremors. Above glints the knife, and Lachlan bends down, crouching next to him, “He’s just a man. I loved you. The real you.”</p>
<p>Blood is on his tongue, in his mouth, threatening to choke him but all he can do is turn his head and let it flood out, pooling beneath his face, like an ocean from inside him. Another set of feet step in from the hallway, Knight looking down on him, features hard in the shadow, “He’s just another pawn in the system. After everything, just another cog.”</p>
<p>Weight settles harsh on his middle, and a hot flash tells him he might suffocate, chest so tight, his fingers twitch for something to put him and death at a better distance. Zia gives him eyes he’s only seen when they were together beneath the sheets and she had been satiated, or at the least her physical needs had been touched and the starving sensation of need was put at arm’s length, “You’re selfish, Vidal. He’s going to see how wrong he is about you and then what will you have?”</p>
<p>Her gun barrel glides slowly, softly along his throat, to his jaw, “A broken kingdom full of futile, meaningless sacrifices and the wounds to prove you don’t care about anyone but yourself.” She stops at his forehead and cracks a thin, harsh little smile, “I’m waiting in hell for you.” An eye for an eye, the wound in her forehead drips a clean line of blood down and it follows her face like a morbid tear.</p>
<p>He doesn’t jerk when the gun goes off, but instinct touches him awake to remind him of the unreality, and he feels hallowed, nauseous but alive. It doesn’t last, sleep claiming another wave of strength but it lacks the same vivid mirroring to the truths he carries with him, the party in Sloane’s old fortress, people everywhere, glass tinkling, pretty noises crafted in the riches of celebration. He moves through the smiles and bubbling champagne, blood on his gloves, legs heavy. No one pays him any mind, clinking their glasses in a victory he doesn’t share.</p>
<p>Across the room, through naked legs of people no longer dressed for war, soft slinking dresses and suits with shined shoes that haven’t seen the grime of the slums, he catches a glimpse of the throne where someone rests their broad arm, laughing with a drink in his fingers. Dark brows over a lion-like smile, Bain puts out his free hand to shake with the Warden, and between their conversation, lopsided, half slumped in the seat of the throne is a skeleton wearing the dark uniform of what once was a mighty war lord.</p>
<p>Jewelry jingles around him, glittering like sparkles, the bar inviting and full. There is no hunger or suffering here, no relapsing beneath the agony of hopelessness or brawls to demand presence and resource because there is not enough, not nearly enough for every person.</p>
<p>Bain excuses himself, indicating upward, sipping his drink, and Reyes follows his motion, turning to look above where a visible second floor waits. There is a set of stairs leading to the upper level, gleaming in the gorgeous yellow lights and he watches, eyes catching on a young woman laughing by the railing, vibrant, with happy hazel eyes that show hope and pride. She is holding champagne, half drunk, and when Bain joins them, her companions, Cora with her hair swept back nicely, her suit all white angles and Liam, the man grinning, knowing elegance with his ruby colored dress clothes and stance, they all react wondrously, physical touch evident in their pleasures. The woman leans into the man’s voice, delight on her cheeks, like the flush of heat is just right in the room.</p>
<p>Reyes glances back, a silence creeping forward from behind to find the bones of the Warden fallen by the throne, skulls and pretty glass now just shattered violence across the finger bones of what once was graceful hands. Dr. Nakamoto walks through the throngs of people waiting their turn to ascend, brow creased, a wrinkle formed from worry, but he is smiling, and he offers a hand to help Ho-sook up the stairs. Around him, the room dusts, cracks bolting through the walls, lights going dull and lifeless, the couches ripped, insides exploding out of old leather, people now just the remains, sightless, hardened corpses at their final stages of decomposition.</p>
<p>Bones, he steps on one, crushing it beneath his boot, shattering it inward and looks up to see Vetra on the stairs, looking down at him. She waits in between the two worlds, seeing him, and the ashes of the realm he stands in, and slowly turns away, ascending, leaving him to the fallen.</p>
<p>The floor begins to cave, falling in at the base of the stairs, only inky black beneath. The darkness grows, elements of wealth only as relevant as the people around to use it, skeletons vanishing in the hellhole of nothingness. Walls sink, the entire room slopping, even the throne slipping forward, creaking, pulling down a kingdom that he thought he might inherit. Skulls roll by him, bottles empty of their drink, a crack in the floor running right between his feet. Pearls off their necklaces, his pistol that Lachlan had pulled from her grasp, an ID card that he used when he first heard of the Initiative project, it all slips away, the impermanence a reminder of an oncoming fate nobody can outrun.</p>
<p>Past his feet rolls a helmet, a certain black helmet with a dark visor, and he jerks, instinct to grab it overwhelming.</p>
<p>When he wakes, it’s to his omni-tool ringing, and the dryness of dehydration. It takes effort to get out of bed, his bandage slightly red and tender to the touch. He makes it to the call, answers it, seeing Batus’ name but doesn’t say anything, reaching into his stock of packaged water and nutrient bars.</p>
<p>“Sir.” Batus says, “We’ve managed to locate the c-class transport. Followed it into a large asteroid belt where it tried to land and hide. Former Outcast second in command Kaetus has been confirmed to be on board and is in custody. They’re on their way back to the Port.”</p>
<p>Pulling the mostly finished water bottle away, Reyes says lowly, “And his destination?”</p>
<p>“It appears he was aiming for the Nexus.”</p>
<p>One final decision for the woman he loved. Loyalty to a fault, loyalty till he’s all burnt out, nothing left but the scorch mark and their trailing suffering. Reyes sighs out, hair loose over his forehead and upper back still warm with a temperature. He plants his hand on the desk, typing several clearances to allow Dalton access to funds for the repair needed on the docks, the figures large in loss. And while he is reading the Collective database, he sees Cassandra has pulled a knife on a Collective agent who asked for a dance, stabbing him and several others who tried to come to his defense, a petty but aggressive revenge to those associated with a woman’s downfall. He opens a message to Ryder, pauses over the words and then closes it.</p>
<p>Another slow, steady breath. “And Krid and Chug?”</p>
<p>“Chug says he’ll go with Krid to Elaaden.”</p>
<p>“Put them on hold. Separate them, leave them in their cells. And when you get a moment, go arrest Cassandra from Tartarus.” He clicks off the line, tossing the water bottle into the trash can, going to a shelf for a shot of whiskey, taken straight from the bottle.</p>
<p>It settles his physical ailments, sharpening the space for other concerns, and slowly he gets dressed, wanting to review the statements made before Kaetus left the Port with violence in his blood. He pulls back up into his chair.</p>
<p>This is his world, Kadara, the open mouth of fangs, the fist in a bar that breaks teeth, the bullet that doesn’t go straight through, and these are the successors to the universe, the first wave of mutineers. Hardened, but explosive, raw and needing, nothing but their instincts and their personal truths to hold them down and challenge flimsy morals that don’t protect when hunger and injury comes knocking. To rule over everything that responded to Sloane Kelly, there insists a contest with the abyss and preparation for the ugly fucked up parts of pulling the body up by the fingertips out of death’s pit. Harnessing the power of hell to drag down those upper layers of the worlds that look so comfortable right into the fire doesn’t have to mean immediate ashes. Everything burns eventually but their hardened shell of scarred souls will surely need a higher temperature. If Sloane Kelly liked the feeling of flame to remind her of just how difficult it is to survive hell, then he’ll learn how to make the scorching heat respond back.</p>
<p>But if he is to demand position, and thusly command the transformation from blind chaos ready to devour everything in its path including itself then he cannot faulter under the weight of life and its loss. He’ll prove adaptability, and the narrative he is so kindly providing to the Initiative is just as fit for the unprivileged. All it takes is to arm men and women against the crimes of the pyramids of power and suddenly the nameless have a name. Teeth and wisdom, when Kadara bears its scars and its ghosts, tells the stories of all its traitors, the Initiative will pale to watch it all level out and force those at the highest levels looking down their nose there is no obvious marking to tell an exile, an outsider apart. They’re all just one circumstance from each other. He’ll give up everything but one thing. Even if he can't keep it himself.</p>
<p>Wait in hell for me, but until I get there, I’m all my own.</p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Cassandra goes kicking, snarling, arms jerking, eyes flashing, blood on her hands. At first she is given the looseness of a hold befitting of someone they expect to calm once clearly outnumbered but after the guards see she’ll only concede to pure violence, much like her acclaimed celebrity, they jolt her with a stinging burst of electricity and break her down to her knees.</p>
<p>“You’ll pay!” She grits, “Kadara was built on the bones of Sloane’s army and history can’t be rewritten!” When the guards lift her up off the floor of the club, she kicks one man over, toppling him into a chair and table, making a pirate growl, “Get the fuck up and do your job already! Spilled my fuckin’ beer..”</p>
<p>She screams, determined to be heard, telling the tales of loyalists who will eventually return to the Port after regaining their power just as they did when they first arrived. The narrative to save a soul, to her it’s a future worth fighting for. Batus stands by, making sure she’s left no further surprises, Kaetus’ sudden bombing of the docks establishing diligence to all effort so to not double on mistakes made once. When she is free of the doors, he slides a card with prepaid credits to Kian, nodding curtly for his assistance and walks up the stairs.</p>
<p>When he gains access to Reyes’ room, he steps in and says, “You’re a hard man to find sometimes.”</p>
<p>Reyes, with his spread of datapads, and omni-tool open, doesn’t look up. He files the records of those who have entered and left the docks, the only ships now unregistered including the c-class stolen which has returned to the garages and one supply ship that confirmed it changed courses on to Elaaden after noticing the explosion. Makerix’s report from the medical unit is ready, her agent having interviewed the nurse who made the last contact with Kaetus before he went rogue. Glancing through her words, he sees she admits to telling him of the fall of the Outcast, thinking him still immobile, a victim.</p>
<p>‘He had asked for Sloane Kelly. I didn’t know what to say but the truth.’</p>
<p>Slowly sitting, Batus looks across the table, calm, collected and rests back. He isn’t information hungry, and thinks if he can avoid having to pick apart details that all look the same from afar, all the better.</p>
<p>“It’s time we start branching out.” Reyes finally says, “The outpost negotiations will be perfect cover for the Collective to start seizing resources outside of Kadara’s orbit. As we start trade with the Nexus, the limitations of the land will start becoming apparent. Once the Initiative thinks they’ve claimed stakes on all the hospitable planets, their reach will start elsewhere. We want to get there faster.”</p>
<p>“Two steps ahead.” Batus agrees, leaning down onto his knees, “I can start a team.”</p>
<p>“I need more representatives. They’ll be your responsibility. You’re their Charlatan.” Reyes turns his gaze on the Turian who steels himself under the weight of intelligence honed like an arrow head, “They’ll establish the Collective outside of Kadara. With Aroane out of the picture, the competition will still be thin, sparse. It’ll give them time to learn.”</p>
<p>“Roger.” Batus glances down to the datapad slid his way, “This implies I’m keeping my direct involvement in their promotion quiet.”</p>
<p>“It’s better this way. Too much power for one man makes him a target. We need a forest of targets.”</p>
<p>“Promotion does inspire.” Batus says loosely, standing, “Anything else?”</p>
<p>“Put Kaetus in interrogation. I’d like to talk to him.”</p>
<p>Blood spatters across the wall, blue flecks, harsh, some large, some the spittle of blue and saliva. A cough echoes into the walls, guttural, hacking, and Kaetus takes a long time to rise up from his folded position in his chair, hands cuffed behind him.</p>
<p>PATHFINDER RYDER? STILL OUT OF THE PUBLIC EYE AFTER CLOSE CALL</p>
<p>NO NEWS FOR SALARIAN ARC CONTINUES TO DEVESTATE</p>
<p>Radwan turns to Reyes who sits across the Turian, watching, chin resting on his hand, his full attention on the beating. He nods the man back a step, and he lowers his metal bat and waits, huffing, wet breathing the only noise. There is nothing here but deformed commitments molded by despair, monsters made by men with dreams gone nightmarish and claimed as harsh realities by others who don’t live them.</p>
<p>“Who.. are you?” Kaetus finally rasps, spitting, uncaring for saving face.</p>
<p>“First, answer my question.”</p>
<p>They meet gazes.</p>
<p>“Why did you flee in the direction of the Nexus?”</p>
<p>Eyes not dead yet but far from shining with life, Kaetus corrects him, “I wasn’t fleeing anywhere. I was finishing a job.”</p>
<p>SUDDEN PRESS CONFERENCE WITH INITIATIVE DIRECTOR TANN ANNOUNCED<br/>
COUNTDOWN TEN MINUTES</p>
<p>Reyes gives his chin a patient stroke, not surprised by the confirmation but strikingly aware of its repercussions. “So you were planning on attacking the Nexus.”</p>
<p>“I was doing what the Outcast said it was going to do. Start a war.”</p>
<p>“Even though the person who killed Sloane was Collective?”</p>
<p>Kaetus lets the blood run down his head, pool in his suit which is now just a skeleton of the uniform made for a second in command. He lets it cover an eye and just stares through it like the contract he has with this body is coming to an end and he doesn’t care if it falls apart right in his hands. “The Collective was going to pick up the tab. This was going to be your war. I had every intention of pretending to be one of you.”</p>
<p>Reyes’ back throbs, stinging and he has to reign in a flash of resentment hot with wrath. It doesn’t agree to be subdued, only twists, catching on the snarls of everything they all endure and try not to let it poison them.</p>
<p>“Unlock his hands.”</p>
<p>
  <em>“Director Tann! Tell us why you’re alone today!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Are the Firefighters’ claims to be taken seriously? How can you answer to the dangers you not only put the Pathfinder in, but the entirety of the Nexus? Have you captured their leader yet?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“There is research being passed around that does indeed show proof artificial intelligence can cause widespread corruption if not contained properly! Do you have any comments?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Why are Pathfinder Ryder’s whereabouts classified? Was he actually harmed by the attack?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Do you think simply increasing the number of guards will prevent a digital attack?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thank you all for joining me today under the short notice. I’ll answer as many questions as my limited time allows but the reason I called this meeting is to put to rest the rumors concerning the Pathfinder’s well-being. As we move forward with the decision to invest Nexus resource into another planet, it takes dedication and careful planning-“</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Where is William Spender, Director Tann? There are rumors he’s been arrested!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Why are you bringing up the outpost? We want to know about what you’re doing about the Firefighters!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“-And in due time we will share the details that will help repel any doubts the public has with the Initiative’s cause. For security, these measures are being taken. Pathfinder Ryder was not hurt by the attack from the Firefighters.”</em>
</p>
<p>Radwan glides his bat under his arm, pulls the keys up and frees Kaetus who only lets his limbs swing free, uncaring. Reyes rises.</p>
<p>“Leave us.”</p>
<p>Kaetus only looks at him from under his brow bones, unmoving as Radwan puts a hand on Reyes’ shoulder as he passes for the door.</p>
<p>“Sloane agreed to a duel for you and the Outcasts and she lost. She agreed to that sacrifice.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t agree. I didn’t agree to any of this bullshit. But what the fuck would you know? You’re just another reject who frequents the bar. You think I don’t know you? Some third-rate smuggler with nothing better to do. Got yourself a good gig here, huh?”</p>
<p>The same regard, the same level of insult, the same disdain.</p>
<p>“I’m the very man who killed Sloane Kelly. And I created the Collective.”</p>
<p>Kaetus’ stares at him, unblinking, devouring the moment, coming back alive within it, the hatred creating a phoenix for his soul. He wipes his face, war paint in its own fashion, smearing the blood still wet. With one fluid movement, he stands, still favoring one side and breathes in like it smolders in his chest. A corpse reanimated, a man with a purpose again. Finally, his presence demands and is answered.</p>
<p>“The Charlatan?”</p>
<p>“And Sloane was right.” He feels his fist, pulls it back, “I should have killed you.” and swings through.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Good morning from the Nexus to all. Have you had your morning coffee yet? If so, you’re ahead of the Initiative who has yet to answer the mounting questions despite growing discontent. We have an interview with one of Andromeda’s notorious journalists today, Keri T’Vessa who says she has insider information coming directly from the source about our newest developments. But before that, Joline, what are the big topics for today?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thanks, Edward. We have news that the terrorists arrested at the press conference with the Pathfinder were indeed scientists associated with Milky Way artificial intelligence development. Their leader Katherine Nigh calls their group the Firefighters, a band of formally educated men and women against the usage of AIs. As this is streaming, they have not yet located Nigh and public confusion and concern have led this to be a highly discussed issue. Does what these terrorists have to say hold any real value and what is the Initiative doing to find Nigh and prevent further damage? Does this prove we have a security breach? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Demands for more blue collar jobs are on the rise as people protest for their loved ones to be released from stasis. The changes made after the Scourge Tragedy have left units that would have been scheduled long past due with others early and without established living conditions. Will we get our answers anytime soon as the next wave is swiftly approaching? Is it even safe to be releasing people?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And lastly, will the Initiative finally pursue the leads about the other missing arcs that have been clearly established or will it continue to focus its lead team with the Tempest on quelling perceived threats? We have plenty to discuss so look forward to the coverage.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thank you, Joline. After the break, let’s hear what Keri has to offer.”</em>
</p>
<p>His fist cracks against the Turian’s jaw and Kaetus almost falls over his chair. He manages to catch himself by sheer grit, holding himself up on the back of the metal, breathing through pain. Trying to right himself on weak knees, he doesn’t have the reflexes to dodge. Reyes puts his arm over his shoulders, and holds him into the knee he pummels up into his sensitive and already bruised torso, over and over until the body is loose so he can hurl the man into the ground, limbs crashing into unforgiving concrete.</p>
<p>Climbing overtop, Reyes lets his blood run as hot as it goes, fists bruising at the knuckles, pounding into the corruption of men, and takes a punch to the face, letting it knock the blood from his nose but he doesn’t stop. A hand shoves at his chest, and he beats harder, civil war just one mistake away, one misjudged person and it tells him no mercy. In the gnarled depths, he demands the consequence for the lack of respect, to a patience worn thin by shameless disregard, and release for a personal turmoil that he’ll never put to words.</p>
<p>They lived in misery, in drug infested corners of acidic mud and poverty for his forgiveness to a woman with ice for a heart and in the afterlife she still claims their lives forfeit for her causes. And still yet they spit at his feet.</p>
<p>WILLIAM SPENDER: CLAIMS OF CORRUPTION HOLDING IN THE WAVE OF QUESTIONS WITH HIS ABSENCE</p>
<p>Knees bang on his back, one catching him in a sensitive spot and he lets the pain fuel the milliseconds, talons taking a gash at his throat, and ripping leather. But he doesn’t stop. Another person to carry forward with him.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thanks for having me on your morning show, firstly I want to say I can’t reveal any of my contacts or my sources. A good journalist keeps their leads to themselves.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Ha ha, well that would have been <em>my</em> first question!”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Try again, Edward!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Well, Keri, you were one of the first to make contact with the Pathfinder when he finally returned to home base after quite a long time on the field. You asked him about the leader of the Outcasts, did you not? Right, what made that such a point of concern for your team? Tell us the ‘so what?’”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Catchy. The ‘so what’ is all about what the public isn’t seeing. Formally, the Initiative has yet to acknowledge the shift of power from the Outcasts to the Collective which from my sources has already happened in the Port. Likely even happened while the Pathfinder was there. That questions the transparency of this outpost and its deal on Kadara.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Your sources are telling you the Outcasts no longer hold the Port.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“And that this is old news. Angara associated with the Resistance are already forming deals with the Collective, acknowledging them. Along that timing, despite Kadara Port having denied the Initiative countless times, now we’re hearing of a deal finally opening up. The Pathfinder said he had no comment on the matter of Sloane’s passing, which has my intuition ringing he was more than aware. So he’s returning to the Port instead of Addison’s team. We have news that the Turian arc has a vital lead but the Pathfinder is instead going to handle negotiations?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You’re saying the Initiative may be working with the Collective beneath the surface? Despite openly claiming they are against mutineers?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“This isn’t the first time we’ve had negotiations done on a planet that started out hostile and full of people exiled off the Nexus but we had far more transparency with Elaaden than we do now. What’s being kept from the public?”</em>
</p>
<p>The door glides open, footsteps on the concrete alerting him to the presence of a guest. They are quiet joining the room filled of death and the scene of brutality. Reyes stands up, rising out of the blood, face bruised, splattered and he breathes out. She waits while he wipes his face with his gloves and says, “Call the cleaning team.” His fingers touch the cut carefully, testing its sensation.</p>
<p>“Sir.”</p>
<p>And as he walks away from the body of a man who let his soul rot for some conceived notion of love, Reyes says to Crux, “I’ve got a job for you. Follow me.”</p>
<p>
  <em>”Yes, we Angara of the Resistance will choose to support the Port opening up. It is no question that those of the Collective have better respect for our people as the face of their operation is an Angaran woman. To rejoice of another planet accessing its roots again may be early, but the Moshae says hope is what brings us together. We have every intention of shaking hands with Kadara.</em>
</p>
<p>The view from the office is illuminated with natural lighting, the desk positioned in such a way that the daylight blankets its entirety. Feet up, looking down on the growing wave of people in the marketplace, the welcoming of allies to their Port, the Charlatan reviews a report detailing a unit for space exploration and the names included.</p>
<p>Crux walks in, startles briefly, and then puts her hair behind her ear, calming a beating heart, “I didn’t expect you to be here.”</p>
<p>“I wanted to see the uniform up close before you stepped out to join Keema.”</p>
<p>She lowers her datapad, “Of course..”</p>
<p>Turning fully in the chair, he drops his boots, folds his hands on the desk and appraises her from his position of power that no desk, no seat, no high window can express. She aligns her feet, smooths her brow, and stands at attention, the wine red of her suit against her black boots smooth, melding, simple with its dark buttons and overlaying front panel with a folded down collar. The high belt and buckled, strapped boots to prevent harm to the legs in case of contact with Kadara’s chemicals match the black of the gloves, her alignment above a thin breast pocket.</p>
<p>He stands, gliding his hand along the desk, “I commend your choice in tailor. And the coat?”</p>
<p>“Sturdy enough for Voeld. A little costly, but worth the protection, I believe.”</p>
<p>He gives her one last look over, satisfied, and says, “Good luck with your meeting.”</p>
<p>She watches him, turns around but he’s down the hallway, descending from the higher levels of the base to answer a call from Keema, returning to the common people, in his own uniform, a uniform of camouflage.</p>
<p>&gt;Aya ships descending into landing position! Docking procedures beginning!&lt;</p>
<p>“They are here, Vidal! Aya representatives for the Resistance! Moshae sent Angara!”</p>
<p>“Crux should have the rooms set up.”</p>
<p>“You deserve to be here, beside us. You are Shena after all. Our notorious first agent.”</p>
<p>“I'm not built for the limelight. Make sure to impress the coverage, I need that distraction.”</p>
<p>“Tell me you’ll make time for a glass of wine. Like old times.”</p>
<p>PROTESTORS GATHER IN FRONT OF NEXUS OPERATIONS WITH DEMANDS FOR FAMILY MEMBERS, JOB SECURITY AND SAFETY</p>
<p>“I’m sure you’ll find me.” He says, knowing well he is not to be found when he doesn’t want to be, slipping out of the base and into the crowds surging to see the momentous walk forward to the future, where what was once thought a lost world, a desolate, horrid place of no tomorrow is now welcoming alliances that will make what was only a saved seat at a table a claimed, permanent chair with a name engraved. Angara cheer for a rebirth that doesn’t have to be flawless, the red of Keema’s outfit proof that they bled, that they embrace the darkness of their journey up to this point and wear it with pride. Several ambassadors wave, offering long and strong handshakes, patient in the glory of growing strength. After the rows of Resistance, Annea and her soldiers follow the set path, Keema walking beside her with open facials, a smile as telling as her shoulder’s distance from another’s. They will hold their ceremonies, smoke their tobacco, and share it with the universe that the Collective lives both on the surface and deep below. Uniformed Collective stand along the path, Crux waiting for her guests’ arrival, a statement for all that this no longer just a band of skilled black-market providers, but a force just as real as all others with titles.</p>
<p>Live feed puts their meeting out to the universe but their leader stands on the docks, watching, confirming with just his presence to the scheduled takeoff of a unit of transports, Batus nodding on his pilots, and the new representative, one of three, a Krogan, young, biting, even hungry for carving his name out and Dalton approaches, pushing back a headache with his fingers on his forehead.</p>
<p>“You headed somewhere or has Umi not opened up to the public yet? Damn, what happened to your face?”</p>
<p>“You all cleaned up quite well.” Reyes indicates with a slight movement of his chin to the roped off area where there once was the charred remains of ships and supplies, all just the black streaks highlighting object and nothingness.</p>
<p>Dalton gives the bruising another quick glance before shrugging, “No small feat. Have the Charlatan to thank for that. The credits that flow through the Collective and back into the Port never cease to amaze me. Have you seen their new uniforms?” Dalton glances across the docks, “Like, it’s official or something.”</p>
<p>Reyes watches the first ship lift off the docks, dip, arch for the best angle and shoot off into space.</p>
<p>“Regulations under the Collective are better though. None of those pesky percentages going straight to the top. The trade we’re going to see!” With a grin, the man thinks of his benefits, patting his pocket where he keeps his cigars, “Rationing will be a thing of the past! First thing I’m ordering when we get proper connection established with the Nexus is a big steak. No protein shakes or shitty bars. I don’t care about the import cost.”</p>
<p>“You don’t think the Collective could get you that steak now?”</p>
<p>“I want to celebrate them eating their words while I eat their meat.” Dalton pops the corner of his lips up, then nods to a pile of cargo, “You got free time? Haven’t seen you loading as frequently. If you’re short on jobs, not too many fresh faces to sweet talk into whatever it is you do, I’ve got a delivery needing wheels.”</p>
<p>Reyes looks at the cargo, making sure to confirm all his ships have taken their leave before he says, “Sure, if you’re offering my cut at sixty.”</p>
<p>“Never go half and half, do you?”</p>
<p>He merely waits.</p>
<p>“Alright, just get it outta here! It’s in my way.”</p>
<p>The open road, a delivery made for a Saneris, the Asari woman once thought an Initiative security detective soon discovered as just a scientist with a conscience and a startling dark past trying to make good karma and a bottle of wine borrowed from the celebrations back at the base. He drives an unmarked truck, settling against the wheel as Saneris and her hired help unload his truck at their bankside safehouse, the job a perfect excuse for a personal journey.</p>
<p>He listens to the Nexus news, watching the protests, the shouting and growing dissatisfaction. Military are beginning to put their hands to their batons, eyeing the crowd, ready for the tip. Slowly the stairs are filled, the demands calling forth further rage, fuel to a spark, the voices rising courage to stand before authority and claim rights to the system. Operations can no longer descend, trapped in their roles, watching with growing concern.</p>
<p>“We want answers!”</p>
<p>“Release my family!”</p>
<p>“Are we just waiting for the Kett to kill us like the rest of the arcs?”</p>
<p>“Why has nothing been announced about Katherine Nigh’s arrest? You think we want to live in constant fear?”</p>
<p>The doors to his vehicle close and someone walks up to his window so he lowers the volume and rolls down the window.</p>
<p>“Thanks for the delivery.” A Turian says, “I’ll transfer those credits.”</p>
<p>Reyes opens his omni-tool, accepts the payment and drives away, turning the volume back up.</p>
<p>“I want to see my husband! We didn’t come out here for years of separation and the scraps of bad political decisions. What’s the point of the Initiative if it can’t even provide our basic needs?”</p>
<p>“Step back!” The clatter of boots, “Step down!”</p>
<p>“You can’t silence us forever!”</p>
<p>“This is why people left the Nexus!”</p>
<p>Raised fists and jabbing fingers full of accusation scatter through the video, guards now standing as a final fence to the unarmed engineers and leaders.</p>
<p>“You’ll give us our answers or we won’t back down! You wouldn’t dare shoot your own!”</p>
<p>A terrifying gamble, one that flashes a reminder of just how many people <em>were</em> shot down when rejecting authority the first time. History has its claims to repetition. But there is one new element.</p>
<p>White armor descends from the higher levels of Operations, the distinct emblem of the Initiative on the chest plate and lifted chin of a man ready for the bruising of criticisms. The Pathfinder arrives in the pit of growing despair and demands and lets the words slap, claw at everything he’s stood for until now. Brittle emotion puts him at the center of their fear, a man in a position to bear humanity’s weight, a man more than a man facing the many, willing to take the brunt of disillusionment for the better of the situation.</p>
<p>“You have questions,” He says, “Valid concerns. I’m here to answer them as your Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>“When am I going to see my family? When are you going to give us our lives back?”</p>
<p>“How do we know you’re not SAM in disguise? Can a robot understand what we’re going through? Where’s the security, the guarantee you’re really in charge?”</p>
<p>“What are you doing about the dangers of the Firefighters? We’re living in terror here! I haven’t slept and everyone feels the same! We’re exhausted, spread thin!”</p>
<p>Ryder listens patiently, face neutral, calm, even as he stands in the splitting seams of control wearing the brand of something double edged. He doesn’t flinch at hands threatening violence, and even waves down guards prepared to intimidate.</p>
<p>“I understand you’re worried. We are currently in the middle of an investigation and have all the confidence we will find Katherine Nigh. Her criticisms of artificial intelligence aren’t unfounded. But we’ve come a long way since project Overlord and SAM has plenty of measures installed to prevent anything happening to the current implants. We’ve learned from past mistakes and SAM is proof of that. Just like how we’ll learn moving forward for all of us on the Nexus.”</p>
<p>“Easy for you to say these things! Your family isn’t in limbo!”</p>
<p>Ryder’s eyelashes dip, but he doesn’t sharpen or go taut, “I know how terrifying it is to have a family member still in a state of uncertainty. But I put faith in our analysts and our leaders that they are doing their best for those still recovering from the Scourge, like my sister,” The admission is said with tact, “And those in stasis. The scheduled release coming up is still happening and I’m taking a wave of you with me.”</p>
<p>“Where? Where are they going to go, Pathfinder?”</p>
<p>He looks strong, like he has an assurance that he falls back on whenever he might falter, “We’re going to Kadara.” And Reyes thinks he might know what that is. “Trust me, your Pathfinder, I’ve got a good lead.”</p>
<p>Reyes finds his bike beneath the safehouse, out of sight, with slashed tires and rolls it up into the vehicle before returning to the scene he left, everything frozen, a live snapshot of how easily the tide turns. Silence with edges, Reyes looks at Lachlan’s fallen body, her covered face, and the blood stains, some his own but indistinguishable, the smell of iron, and death present, lingering, the cloud of repugnant cost and fragile life systems no longer functioning.</p>
<p>He breathes it in, tastes it on his tongue and remembers. This is how things are built. This is a price to be paid by someone. He steps into the room.</p>
<p>The grave watches him, marked, as he looks out into the distance at the lights from the Port, the orange glow of celebration, and the wondrous excitement of hope bringing down more ships of Angara, telling of success for negotiations. Solitude settles on his shoulders, wind coming across the hills and through the open door of the safehouse, cleaning the trapped ghosts out, tossling his hair, loose with the efforts of digging and then moving the body down into the cool ground of eternal slumber.</p>
<p>The wine tastes strong, telling of Aya and its labors, and Reyes appreciates the flavor, the fall of day altering the sky into the vibrant loneliness of dusk and its parade of colors. The sentimentality is taken for once without critique, no wise reasons or manufactured diversions to explain it just the appreciation he’s claimed something out there in the stars, something more than the planet he took by force, and the deeds of men who pay for a future to exist, something for a name not in the history books. Even when he doesn’t deserve it, even when he shamelessly tarnished it, pride a sin here. He won’t stop, nothing could stop him, but what seeps through the heart, stings the senses alive and keeps his thread to humanity from fraying is the genuine appraisal of everything he is coupled with acceptance even when the world tells to turn away, to go the easy route and give in to judgment, look on action and not assess intention for the level of impact.</p>
<p>What do I look like in your eyes? He’ll never ask, but damn does he want to be reflected back in whiskey amber.</p>
<p>A faraway whistle and pop splatters the sky with the sparkling purples and blues of Angaran fireworks, or the equivalent, fizzing clouds of shimmering color floating through the air, light as cloud. An eye catching and wondrous victory, but he’s removed, surrounded by thoughts. He looks into the stars, a new frontier, and the grounds for the Charlatan’s expanding reach, the shadowed hands doubling in number across Andromeda and also into the twinkling darkness that from their positions isn’t even mirrored, the distance too far to be the same sky.</p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Knight can hide her signal, block trackers but eventually she has nothing to prevent SAM and Ryder following her physical trail. She sits at a café, drinking coffee, her dark hair down, loose and suit changed, sunglasses sitting on the surface of her table in the small patio area. There is elegance in the way she holds her body, the contained exact way she puts the drink to her lips, and recognizes the universe around her. She is the same in so many ways to him, someone with limited options making use of them and facing the world head on, fearless because she already has been walking a tightrope of realities since before this gamble. She is not like the Pathfinder, who has been able to use an iron fist to crush through obstacles, put on armor made for this moment but not crafted by his own hands. He’s had to learn about the delicacies of maturity, of finding an answer in all the noise made by power.</p>
<p>Ryder pulls out a chair, arm finally free of its sling, and sits, wearing his uniform, something altered by time, no longer needing armor and weapons to prove his position, or provide an angle to dialogue. An air of respect that didn’t used to find his mannerisms, youth, orders keeping the distance too far. But now he’s taken a step toward the exile, crossed tall boundaries, seen a world not for men like him but welcoming him anyway.</p>
<p>“You let me find you.”</p>
<p>She puts down the cup, “You were going to catch up eventually.”</p>
<p>There are multiple camera angles, all taken from a distance, none official Nexus lines but unstoppable. A terrorist sits calmly with their hero accused of being poisoned by all that has set him apart from other soldiers. Everything the public demands, Ryder offers.</p>
<p>“Why not try and escape?”</p>
<p>“And leave the burden of my failures to my team? It wouldn’t exactly promote sympathy toward them. No,” She sighs, “I wasn’t trying to put anyone in harm’s way. Just protect our future.”</p>
<p>Ryder understands her position, deeply, intimately, and the only difference is their placements. He watches her, and the people watch them. Voices echo around, hurried words, hushed warnings, guards slowly, exactly kneeling behind plants, and around corners, keeping the public back.</p>
<p>“You didn’t hurt me.” He says, finally, after digesting her words, “You could have. To rid the universe of SAM.”</p>
<p>They look at one another, the son of a father who was given a burden and the mother of a son who provided a burden. She delicately follows the rim of her tea plate with a steady fingertip, processing.</p>
<p>“I have a son.” Softly, she touches the handle of the cup, “His name is Alain. I once foolishly believed in the authority of a project that could lead us humans to be closer to our fuller potential. I put Alain in a position to bear the risks of such ignorance and he is still burdened today for my mistakes, which has robbed him of his ability to walk. Overlord showed the limitations to fusing conscious beings with code. I’m not trying to destroy AIs, or prevent the use of them, but your father put you in danger, just as I did with Alain, merging you with SAM.”</p>
<p>“SAM saved my life.” Ryder tells her, “I wouldn’t have survived without him.”</p>
<p>She regards his emotion, the truth in his facials and sits with it, cupping her coffee cup, feeling the fading warmth.</p>
<p>“We can offer the same benefits of the implant for Alain.”</p>
<p>“You don’t blame your father for what happened?” She asks softly, looking down into the frothy remains of a drink. “For his dedication to his ideas and for the harm that came to you for them?”</p>
<p>Ryder isn’t quick to answer, squeezing his knuckles on the top of the table. He looks into his life, deeper than a man with a duty, to a boy with a father, to the warm hands that offered him sanctuary and the footprints that gave him direction. And maybe to the loneliness that comes out of childhood, to a world that is so small and necessary and quiet with the absence of a parent.</p>
<p>“There was resentment. For a long time, I found his attention to his work frustrating, and alienating. I wondered what he couldn’t find with us, his family, that he was finding wherever he was. Why couldn’t someone else do it, so I could be with my dad?” Ryder confesses, for their world, for Knight, “And then I became the Pathfinder and I realized we don’t always get to choose.”</p>
<p>She stews in his words, unafraid of the trained guns on her body, despite everything she stands for being on the line. Maybe she trusts Ryder wouldn’t just let them shoot her, or maybe some part of her is resigned to dying for the cause she put her soul into.</p>
<p>“What would you do if it does get out of control, if your father’s project fails?”</p>
<p>“I would do the right thing.”</p>
<p>She breathes out, the grimmest smile ghosting her lips, sees a son in someone else’s son and looks at him fully. “Your father would be proud.”</p>
<p>“Alain would want his mother to live.” Ryder says back and she sighs, shoulders folding inward, hand gripping harder to the white glass. She didn’t have a choice to meet the Pathfinder for this confrontation but he had every choice in how it went.</p>
<p>Her eyes slowly look over him, and stop on his omni-tool. A slight pinch finds her brow and she asks, “Is that… the standard omni-tool assigned to you?”</p>
<p>He looks at it, and then says, “No, it was made for me.”</p>
<p>Her eyes slowly rise to his face, and she asks, “Could I see it?” Her palm opens up, and he assesses the danger, listening for a moment before he extends his arm and puts it in her hand. The guards resteady their aim, prepared to shoot at the drop of a pin. Tension tightens around them, altered at their table, where Knight is carefully examining the device, thumb following a panel, and seeing something.</p>
<p>Dawning understanding touches her eyes, and she murmurs, “This is some intricate and impressive work. I taught someone how to upgrade their omni-tool once.” She doesn’t glance up to Ryder’s slightly pinched brow, “And this looks like my work.” Her eyes flick up, and she releases him, letting him draw his hand back to his side of the table. “The Collective needs the Pathfinder…” She breathes out, closing her eyes, feeling the wave of what this statement now means to her, to him, seeing a truth written between the lines, a skill he’s had from years prior.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“He uses people.” Her eyes find the omni-tool, stares at it like it might reflect him, “And it looks like you’re the bigger target.” Grief like lightning bursts in her eyes, intense, true, but she holds strong, aware the universe is cruel, and she let herself define him with her own desires. “Thrown away for the next thing.” She mutters, squeezing her hand on the table, tasting something far more bitter than coffee.</p>
<p>“Who are you talking about?” Ryder questions, voice taking an edge, the edge that he knows but wants it to be said aloud, confirmed.</p>
<p>“Do you need me to say it?” Knight pins him with her eyes, her years on him painting a striking bold flush to his cheeks, “Do you want me to say it so everyone can hear?” And he finally feels the presence of their world devouring the moment, shooting a betraying glance to a distant position where blond hair is waiting.</p>
<p>“I’ll surrender to you, Pathfinder, for Alain’s sake. But I’ll say this as a warning, that man is using you.”</p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>The door slams, the automatic process overridden for physical and Ryder comments, “Didn’t know we could still slam these kinds of doors.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t the time for witty diversions, Ryder.” Cora snaps, the apartment unit a temporary place for sleeping and personal time, hardly used but still hers.</p>
<p>“It’s not really the time for this conversation either. We’re due for loading procedures.”</p>
<p>“I think we need to make time to talk about this, this- this elephant in the room. How could you trust him, Ryder, after everything? After all the smoke and mirrors? After Knight says <em>that</em>?”</p>
<p>“He’s never lied about intel.”</p>
<p>“Because he doesn’t need to lie about the small things. He’s got all the information he could need from you!” She snatches his arm, lifts it like it’s a mark, an obvious sign of guilt, “You didn’t tell me <em>he</em> made this. You <em>said</em> you bought it in the marketplace on Kadara.”</p>
<p>He tears his arm free like her touch stings, and he argues, “I <em>did</em> buy it in the marketplace on Kadara.”</p>
<p>“Do you think dodging around what I’m saying will make this easier on any of us? We’re going for official negotiations; we have a colony to think about.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never put the Nexus at risk.”</p>
<p>“No? You’ve become a pawn to the Charlatan. Reyes treats it all like a game, and you’re just another piece on his board.”</p>
<p>Ryder looks to her, looks her in the face, and she recoils slightly, “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare look at me like that. I’m calling this off. You’re not going. We’ll send Kandros in our stead.”</p>
<p>“He called for the Pathfinder.”</p>
<p>“If Nexus leadership finds out who exactly that man in the picture is, and how far you’ve let him cross your boundaries, that investigation on your record is going to develop into actual repercussions. We’ll have a scandal on our hands. This isn't just some exiled smuggler, Ryder. I’m calling Liam down here, and Lexi.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, let’s all discuss my personal life, because you know, I don’t deserve the common decency of privacy.”</p>
<p>“If I could give you that, Ryder, you know I would. But you’re the Pathfinder and you have to answer to the many facets of the job.”</p>
<p>It’s a tense and harsh cut of time spent in silence before Liam and Lexi arrive from their own apartments, likely collecting personal items or placing them in the protection of the safety of the Nexus home base. Liam glances across the facials, drops down onto the couch and says, “Looks like we’ve got a problem.”</p>
<p>Lexi also examines Ryder’s avoiding gaze and Cora’s drawn brow, her folded arms and tight lips. She doesn’t say anything immediately but does close the door with a gentle touch and steps closer to the makeshift circle of comrades.</p>
<p>“We can’t go to Kadara like this. Not with so much at stake.” Cora finally says, “Not with Ryder compromised.”</p>
<p>“I’m not compromised.” He defends, “And the Collective said they wouldn’t have any other person to negotiate besides me. How are we in any position to change the terms? They have all of Spender’s information.”</p>
<p>“Don’t mask it with the bigger picture. Reyes chose you because he knows he’ll have you agreeing to his terms easier than anyone else. He has you basically wearing a wire! The Pathfinder!”</p>
<p>“We do kind of need that information. We’re in the hot seat.” Liam speaks up from the couch and Cora turns to him, light brown eyes assessing, and she says slowly, “You knew, didn’t you? About them.”</p>
<p>Liam glances to Ryder, arms spread across the back of the seat, checking the minimal nonverbal communications before coming clean, “It wasn’t meant to be a guarded secret.” He leans forward, putting out a hand to aid his explanation, “C’mon, Cora. The guy’s been on our side all this time, even helped us with the Roekaar faction. I mean, it was surprising to find out he’s the Charlatan, but Reyes hasn’t put us in any situation we weren’t prepared for.”</p>
<p>“He was helping Knight, somebody who could’ve seriously harmed Ryder and the Initiative. That’s not an ally, that’s a free agent looking for the best leverage. All these ‘situations’ you’re talking about seem awfully convenient to prove him useful. He didn’t kill Sloane for us.”</p>
<p>“Nothing came of Knight. The Collective was the one who tipped us off on the Firefighters.”</p>
<p>“So when nothing comes out of danger we should just continue inviting it in until we <em>do</em> end up with a situation we can’t handle? That wasn’t a courtesy between allies, that was them cutting away a load before it pulled them down. Or an elaborate performance.”</p>
<p>Liam scratches his neck slowly, looking back to Ryder with apologetic eyes, withdrawing from the argument, hearing the reason in Cora’s voice. She turns to Lexi, waiting for the doctor to take her position, outnumber Ryder and prove her right.</p>
<p>The Asari considers Cora and then Ryder and then contemplates the situation, touching the table, clean, if maybe a little dusty and finally says, “Pulling out of this dialogue will only arouse suspicions, make our vulnerabilities more obvious. The Collective has the upper hand, and we should acknowledge this before that becomes a threat. I understand your position, Cora, and I do believe moving forward everything you’ve said should be taken into extreme consideration.” She looks at Ryder as she says this, who turns his gaze back down.</p>
<p>“Lexi, someone more impartial would certainly be a safer option then. One wrong move, one carefully timed rumor with the right basis and we’re going to have a wildfire. Or better yet, the Charlatan’s just waiting for the perfect chance to use this all to his advantage and we’re bound straight for that storm.”</p>
<p>Ryder’s breath catches like he desperately wants to argue but he can’t find the words.</p>
<p>“I don’t think we should pull out of our negotiations with Kadara. Instead, we should tighten our defenses, have each other’s back with all the sincerity we can. Ryder has an entire team of people around him for a reason. This is not an easy place to be, for anyone.” She says the final line with punctuation, to prove she knows of Cora’s plights, of Liam’s impromptu leaps of faith and concerned impatience and of Ryder’s conflict, his sacrifices and turmoil.</p>
<p>Cora glares under her brow, eyes ablaze, “Now that I know what I’m looking for, I’m not going to have the wool pulled over my eyes. Whether you like it or not, Ryder, you’re my number one priority and I won’t fail protecting you. He’ll have his outpost, and I’ll have our Pathfinder’s back.” She snatches up her jacket off the chair at the table, the leather tight in her hand, “I’ll start pre-take-off procedures. I’ll see you all on the Tempest.”</p>
<p>Liam breathes out, the tension in the room transforming with Cora gone and Lexi looks at him, “Could you give me and Ryder a moment?”</p>
<p>“I’ll stop by Addison’s office, tell her we’re getting ready.” He says, standing, clapping Ryder’s shoulder on his way out.</p>
<p>There’s a tenderness to the quiet, and Ryder sits in it, then sighs, murmuring, “Guess you’ll want to tell me ‘I told you so.’”</p>
<p>Lexi comes a step closer, “Ryder." It doesn't hold even an ounce of chastisement, "I wanted the best for you, for everyone. I thought drawing quick lines, telling people the ins and outs of their situations, the reasons for the feelings, rebuking the bad coping and demanding the better coping, I thought all that was helpful, and my purpose. I thought I could help you maneuver difficult situations by putting in immediate boundaries, protecting you from the hard outside world.</p>
<p>Then I worked alongside Peebee, and she didn’t trust me, all my probing, all my categorization and labels. How easy it was for me to tell her what she’s doing wrong with her life, to command her to give me the important details and bare herself to me, just because I needed to make sure you all could still fight, and work as a team. And I realized it wasn’t as easy as just checking boxes, picking out the big core elements of a person and putting fancy words to their lifestyles. To care is to accept the imperfections. We’re going to be complicated, and have needs, we’re going to make mistakes, and when situations actually hit us, we’ll find it isn’t so easy to be objective.</p>
<p>“What I’m saying, Ryder, is nothing you do is inherently good or bad. You found something out there, and you’ll have to decide what you do with it. It’ll have consequences, like everything we do. But remember, you’re cared for too, through everything. You get to make this decision, but you don’t have to carry the burden all by yourself.”</p>
<p>“Is there a right decision?” Ryder asks low.</p>
<p>“Would it make you feel better if there was such a bold line between decisions?”</p>
<p>“Probably not.”</p>
<p>“The biggest divider might just be regret. Regret for things decided without our say, regret for things undecided or decided too quickly. The Pathfinder doesn’t get to choose every mission he has to take on, but Ryder gets to choose the kind of man he is.”</p>
<p>He looks at her, gently, between eyelashes and she says, “We all want you safe, Ryder. There’s a lot at stake but you know that.” Lexi softly puts a hand to his back, careful but fully, the touch of a figure who knows how the gentle presence of another’s hand gives all the reassurances words sometimes can’t fill. “There will be a lot of voices speaking up, a lot of grief, and you can’t answer them all. So you should at least answer yourself.”</p>
<p>Ryder is quiet a long moment, her hand a tether in the muddled twisting ties of duty, of labels and perceived rights and wrongs, but finally he says, “Thanks, Lexi.” And they put the apartment back into its dark stage of waiting for their next return, if the day comes.</p>
<p>Xxx</p>
<p>Public frustration smoothed thin, cracking but no longer explosive, they wave off their Pathfinder, consoled by the promises kept and made, Knight in custody, and the outpost negotiations next on a list to keep morale high. Tann tries to deliver statements to deter news and journalists picking apart a slew of choices made both by leadership and security but it’s a shallow defense until the facts are appropriately provided. And for that, the Initiative needs the Collective.</p>
<p>The questions Knight’s existence brought to life still flutter around the Nexus, settling in the backs of the people’s minds, a waiting protest when life is not so precarious and they want for further securities. But for now, they celebrate the strongest soldier in the galaxy coupled with the fastest, most intelligent processor they know of, because he wears their colors and says he is in control.</p>
<p>Communications with New Tuchanka glide through with ease by the trustworthy notes of Keema’s voice, a front representative, her seemingly transparent presence an accurate symbol of survival in this universe and wondrous cover for the growing black market. Could anyone speak poorly of an Angara finally benefiting from returning wealth in all of her people’s sacrifices and sufferings? It would be hard to find hostility in her intelligent gaze and callously tear her down by harsh criticisms without the claim’s backlash. Whatever stands behind her in her shadow keeps exactly to that, and between them, the Collective thrives.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you have the doctor check this for you, Vidal?” Keema asks, fingers carefully smearing Angara medicine to the tender flush of stitches, avoiding too much pressure to the most aggressive colors, the low light of the newly added room to their lounge in the slums a heavy magenta, softening to pink, where legal gambling is played under the cover of night and a place for conversation and casual information dropping other times of day.</p>
<p>Relief washes over him, and he lets out a gradual, controlled breath, moving the cigarette with a slow, exact movement, not to waste any necessary energy. Then he shows her it over his shoulder, sitting on a bench positioned for stargazing and a drink beneath the weathers when the window is opened. “No smoking in the med unit.”</p>
<p>“Following rules? You?”</p>
<p>“Avoiding nagging.”</p>
<p>“Should you be here, now? The Tempest will be arriving soon.”</p>
<p>“I have something that requires my attention.”</p>
<p>Keema lets him correct his clothing, pressing his collar back in place and pull on gloves that don’t show the stains of recent lives he’s had to take. The cigarette hangs from his lips and he says through it, “Upon the arrival of the Pathfinder, sign off Krid, Chug and the Warden for Elaaden.”</p>
<p>Deceptively empty prisoner cells and a threat seemingly smothered if just distributed throughout the wild brush, the details are exactly what will prove the outpost’s leanings. Nothing came of suspicions of the Krogan guards, although they were quieted by the news of Kaetus’ passing and for that their passage was paid.</p>
<p>“I want a list of all our available options for the outpost’s leadership.”</p>
<p>“You believe they’ll let us choose?”</p>
<p>“They’ll let us do whatever we want.” For their image, for the presence of perceived justice, for the right set of words.</p>
<p>Keema looks into her omni-tool and stands from her seat, her red uniform purpling beneath the lights. In the further, darker corners, Angara smoke cigars, murmur closely together, tossing dice in a casual game. A window, closed until midnight, is at the farthest wall from the door where a cloaked Angara offers tips and gathered intel for a price and sets up the bets for the evening’s play.</p>
<p>“They’re coming down into the atmosphere. I will go greet our esteemed guests.”</p>
<p>Reyes watches her go, then slips out of the lounge to listen in on the Wind Farm’s recent complaints made to a fresh representative in Tartarus. The base hits, a couple of drunk, happy scavengers with credits to burn stumbling out toward the newly rejuvenated Oblivion den, which is now no longer anything of the sort, a Turian guarding the newly formed stairwell downward.</p>
<p>Taking in the room, the splatter of red clothing, and the atmosphere, thirsty but lacking destructive mindlessness and passion for blood, the weaving between customers is easy. They want at least half their wits for news of the negotiations, and the pleasure of several drinks in. Thrasia is sitting at a table, glass in hand, swirling it, talking low with a man in blue and gold armor, a bit flashy, but good with a rifle and a sneer to deter the wavering.</p>
<p>Reyes glides a champagne glass off a tray from an Asari waitress who twirls to look him up and down before continuing through the guests into the more expensive tables who like to watch people see them afford luxury. He steps up the stairs, patient, working with the shadows, the movement of people and waits until he is standing just above Thrasia’s table to lean on the railing and sip bubbles.</p>
<p>“We’re not housing gang members because we like the uncertainty.” She says, “They do good labor and for the most part, they’ve been quiet. But these new members, these loyalists from the Outcasts, they’re looking to start shit.”</p>
<p>“Start shit.” The man, Vince, echoes, voice harsh on the stops and monotone in between.</p>
<p>“They’ve joined Yakshi, likely just for namesake, you know, to prevent being taken out before they get anywhere, but I know an ex-Outcast when I see one.” She throws back her tequila, lifts a finger and orders another from Barbi.</p>
<p>“Yakshi already had its claims on Sloane’s war, but they’re trying to pull together a smaller strike, hit the outpost at its most vulnerable. Not enough strength to actually get that big war they were craving but they are on the prowl for clear intel, leadership. I’m a badlands woman through and through, but I’m not about to watch good trade go up in flames.”</p>
<p>“Looking for leadership, huh?” Vince says lowly, resting back in his seat, arms folding slow and exact. His white eyelashes don’t move in the blue green light, proving him staring hard, assessing, or mulling over the violence that keeps to the Outcast name, the snake body that won’t die even without its head.</p>
<p>Barbi slips another glass of tequila into Thrasia’s hand and she says, “I’m offering up this tip for a price though. The badlands are neutral territory for a reason, but that doesn’t mean alliances can’t mean something. I want some.. low lying muscle, for the night’s when the desperate get ballsy.” She drinks, unafraid of the liquor’s strength. “Got a few too many reaching hands nowadays.”</p>
<p>“You want body guards.”</p>
<p>“Guys who get a little restless in the full moon, if you know what I mean. Can’t have them folding after a good couple evenings out in the boons.”</p>
<p>Vince shifts ever so slightly in his seat, “I’ll shop around.”</p>
<p>Thrasia finishes her tequila, standing, “I’ll be waiting for that knock on my door. You’ve got the drinks covered, hm? Interest on our transaction.” She walks effortlessly through the ever-expanding club floor, leaves a word with Zrel who is still laughing even after the Turian’s long gone having effortlessly avoided a tab.</p>
<p>Reyes puts the empty champagne glass onto a nearby, unoccupied table, watching overhead as Vince curls a couple fingers to Barbi and indicates to the drinks, his still untouched, a beer, and he pays, opening his omni-tool. She gives his shoulder a squeeze and finally he lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a long swig. For a long while, Vince taps along his omni-tool, scrolling, nursing the drink, before he types up a few messages, curt, not more than a few lines. The waiting mellows the slender first drink into only the kiss mark of a moment, at one point felt, but now just a glass as a reminder.</p>
<p>The man rises up from the table, casual, not in a hurry, and saunters up to the bar, leaning in to ask for something stronger. He takes his double shot glass, drinking it on the spot and then with his second drink in hand, settles along a barstool, looking into the crowd.</p>
<p>While there is still the chance of ruin for him, whether it be by motives marked by an urge for death, or an affinity to be swayed, his initial movements all catch the eye. A woman with messy dark hair offers conversation, teeth sharp at the canines and Vince smirks ever so slightly behind his glass, welcoming the approach.</p>
<p>Watching a man enjoy a drink, then some casual flirting and dancing is nothing new, and Vince isn’t special, all his mannerisms average, expected. Leaning into a voice, appreciation for slow sensual touch on the dance floor, thirsty when off, he doesn’t show any immediate greed or mind to leave his post. Hours spent enjoying the flavors of Tartarus, Vince finally pays his tab, nods a thanks to Kian and pulls his wolf mouthed associate in close, her own arm snaking around his waist too. Nothing out of the ordinary until they pass someone coming in through the doorway in a dark hoodie overtop white and blue armor who moves his shoulder for the two.</p>
<p>Reyes’ eyes follow the man, face hidden by the hood, and the way he navigates the crowd, like he knows this environment, and takes the stairs, two at a time. From across the upper level, he watches the man knock on the informant’s usual room, allowed entrance because no one is there. Dropping his hood, Ryder looks around the empty and darkened, room, a certain expression hitting deep.</p>
<p>The seconds slow, and no longer because he’s bored.</p>
<p>Reyes glides off the railing, trailing a hand, savoring the hesitation, the lingering disappointment. He catches a waitress on her way down and says, “Vidal, top shelf. To my usual room.” She smiles prettily to him, and descends in her tank top and long white pants.</p>
<p>Before Ryder can step out of the opened doorway and back into the club, Reyes approaches, altering his escape and he asks, “Looking for someone?”</p>
<p>The surprise, and the immediate turn, sends sparks even to the fingertips, and Ryder opens his mouth, like he might say something but only manages to swallow, looking long at his face. The seconds tick by until Reyes steps inside the room, one step, another, so Ryder only has to walk back, and the door glides closed. They look at one another in the darkness, the shadows so perfectly angled, the silence full, so very full. Whiskey gone dark, but alive, looks at him, and in a better light he might’ve had everything he wished for, that mirror of amber.</p>
<p>Air rushes past Reyes’ face, the heavy weight of an armored fist denting into the metal of the door beside his head. When they both assess this, the punch that missed, the punch that never meant to hit and the unflinching reaction to it, Ryder gently pulls his fist out and the door comes open with a slight tremor.</p>
<p>The waitress, mouth dropped slightly open, the whites of her eyes glistening, stands like a deer in the headlights, holding the tray with two glasses and flicks her gaze between the two men, Ryder turning away, rubbing a hand down the bottom of his face. She luckily had enough reflex not to drop anything but doesn’t know what to say. Reyes takes the tray, and frees her, so the door can close again and he can put the tray down on the table.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you dodge?” Ryder finally asks, voice low, still buzzing with the flash of adrenaline.</p>
<p>“Were you actually going to hit me?”</p>
<p>“Were you going to let me?”</p>
<p>Reyes offers a slight smirk, sharp and he gives Ryder a look, slowly sitting down in his usual seat.</p>
<p>Ryder doesn’t move, stiff, squeezing the fist off and on, as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, feeling the sensations. A sea of questions rolls between them, all the things that went unasked a droplet, another droplet, and now he’s swimming in an ocean of acclaimed evidences made stormy by emotion.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you just sell me out?”</p>
<p>It lacks the anger the punch proved simmers beneath the surface, but there’s brutality in the why and desperation, Ryder at the end of his rope, respected counsel telling him this will be the ruin of him, the bridge that needs to be set aflame, a torch put in his hand. Would a fight have proven their appropriate placements? Guilt or even self-preservation coming first, over everything, letting that line to step back behind feel easy, a bandage ready to cater to an unoriginal wound; the selfish man will always pick himself first, no matter what. Anticipation that he is no different than Knight, or others he likely suspects that have fallen for the Charlatan’s rise cuts deep, a self-inflicted bleeding to make the stab less noticeable. He nods the man to sit and pours them both a drink.</p>
<p>“I don’t have any reason to.”</p>
<p>Ryder doesn’t move, voice harshening, like what he wants to believe is just another admission away, even against what the situation paints and it’s cruel in its closeness, “You could’ve made bigger demands from the Initiative that way.” You could’ve forced my hand, bent my arm as far as you wanted. You could’ve broken me.</p>
<p>“I’ve got what I want standing right here, don’t I?”</p>
<p>They stare at one another, and Ryder’s eyelashes flutter but he’s frozen. Back to wading through implication, back in the in-betweens, where they’ve dipped their feet, right on the edge.</p>
<p>“Sit down, Ryder.”</p>
<p>Stiffly he sits, putting his head in his hands, running his fingers up through his hair, sighing deeply. He doesn’t look up immediately, the moment a certain kind of torture.</p>
<p>Reyes slides him his glass. And finally he gives it a look, an honest weighing before he grabs it up, throws it back, showing the arch of his neck. Liquid courage, or maybe just something to mute the intensity of everything. Reyes follows him, throat warming, then insides.</p>
<p>“You’re a shady bastard.” Ryder says, but if it held any accusation it would’ve sounded less like a confession. The recognition that Reyes finds solace in, right underneath, it almost hurts how good it feels, despite the sting at his back.</p>
<p>“But a handsome one,” He catches Ryder’s eye, “Right?”</p>
<p>It’s been a long time since he’s wanted to hear affirming words, a transformed young man who thought he couldn’t bear the weight and yet still wanted to live learning how to not take extra fault in his place. Now that he’s had it, heard it from a distant moonbase when all he’s done seems unequivocally terrible, worth every bad word said, every gutting loss and pointed finger, he aches for more. Look at everything, Ryder, before you answer, tell me this doesn’t make your stomach clench and blood run cold.</p>
<p>Ryder runs his hand back up through his hair, breathing out heavily, relaxing ever so slightly, a minute dip in his shoulders that anyone who didn’t know him would have overlooked, “Too damn handsome for your own good.”</p>
<p>“It actually does me a lot of good.” He lights a cigarette, and Ryder watches a little more openly, the fragile moment lush with concessions of affection earned through evil defined, and treachery possible, of two sides that in all other accounts shouldn’t find the appeal of the man across the train tracks, for his self image and purpose but can’t shake favoritism, if even in the face of it being a self-inflicted fantasy.</p>
<p>“Thought you’d be in the throne room. Not in Tartarus.”</p>
<p>“Come on, Ryder.” He murmurs, and how the man melts beneath the tone, against his better judgement but all for his feelings. It says a thousand things, but Ryder isn’t ready to hear them with impartiality. He looks at the lips touching a cigarette carefully, and knows what he means, relieved in many ways the man before him, with all his betrayals, is not looking for blind status, is not so flat as to want a makeshift throne for all he’s relinquished. He is not some hungry victim satiated by fifteen minutes in the spotlight, rocking situations just for another thirty seconds. There is assurance in motive deeper than a claim to fame, his name still out of the makings of history. Maybe it soothes the burn that licked his ego when he was blindsided several times over for Reyes’ plans.</p>
<p>Knowing Ryder might find it unbearable in so many ways, that he will be lashed with the criticism but accepts it, takes it on as his to endure and still comes looking for him, through the anger, through the uncertainty, has him curling his finger, signaling the man closer. He leans in, eyelashes dipping, the smoke hot fire and then cool wisps, and he asks, “How was your welcome committee?”</p>
<p>Caught ever so slightly off guard by the topic, Ryder glances to those words and how they look between the lips, and he says, “It was.. impressive. The docks looked busier than ever.”</p>
<p>The tease as much a question, Reyes looks at him, slowly sucking another mouthful of smoke in. Ryder watches, still talking, “The marketplace was thriving. Far more Angara than before..” He trails off, leaning in, taking the kiss, breathing in smoke, and Reyes lets him have it, taste their brand, taste everything he shouldn’t want, knows is bad for him, but can’t shake the craving.</p>
<p>Ryder holds their smoke, the burn safe, known, and lets it go, smoothly, “When are you going to stop leading me like that?”</p>
<p>Reyes settles back, devilish in satisfaction, “When are you going to stop liking it?”</p>
<p>Ryder’s grimace says, ‘Never.’</p>
<p>Is it enough? The minimum said in order to keep the universe afloat in their own ways, or is it all just pressurizing until it explodes?</p>
<p>A voice rattles the floor, “Ryder!” It’s loud, demanding, and so out of place. Ryder startles, looking over to the closed door. “Ryder!”</p>
<p>He glances to Reyes who indicates with a brief gesture, “You’re being called.” But there’s obvious reluctance, more to be said with the deliverance and patience they both are willing to offer to keep each other out of the other’s river of death.</p>
<p>Ryder grips his fist, hearing his name again, the lack of tactful subtleness that is necessary in a city of crime and knows he must go. What would he have asked if given the time? His unsettled demeanor is obvious, speaking to an impatience, like he faces limited time, a set number of chances quickly decreasing, but Reyes' composure blooms in his grip on their situation. He'll be back. At the door Ryder turns, and says with all sincerity, “I know you’ll have your secrets. It’s who you are.” He sighs, bleeds vulnerable, his hand hovering over the button, “But give me a little warning about the big stuff.”</p>
<p>Noise fills the room, bursting their bubble of privacy and Ryder is down the stairs with a swiftness important to the tension rising swiftly. There’s protest, annoyed customers snapping at Cora, invested in the Initiative in all the ways they can benefit and none so in its penetration of their lives. Her white and blue armor is out of place, discretion unfavored for results and she looks at him fully when he approaches, putting out a hand to growling pirates.</p>
<p>“You can’t vanish like that. We’re about to start mapping the coordinates for the outpost. We need you.”</p>
<p>“Sorry, thought we had a longer recess.”</p>
<p>She glances across his face, sees something but reigns in her expression, discipline holding strong in the pinch of her brow. They turn to leave, and she looks to him one last time, “You smell like smoke. I thought you were going to quit?”</p>
<p>Ryder breathes in, shoulders sharp but honest, “I’m not ready.” He walks for the door, Zrel opening it for him.</p>
<p>She senses it, the finger up the spine and turns over her shoulder, to see him, leaning on the railing, looking down on them. They make eye contact, and hers smolders into a glare, and then with a slow exact dip, she looks to the burning fire in between Reyes' fingers. He stares back, slowly pulling the cigarette from his lips, and blows smoke.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. The Outpost: Sunrise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The outpost development begins, and prices will be paid for it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Every single comment on this piece of work means the world to me. This is such a self-indulgent piece, long, circular in all the ways I like it and detailed in soo many rabbit holes. Thank you so much for reading this and as we move into our final stages of this work, I hope that I can not only improve in my story telling but enjoy it with you!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tap. </p><p>Tap. </p><p>Tap. </p><p>“So,” Meriweather regards Crux across her desk, gloved finger methodically tapping the surface, feet up at an angle from her position in her chair, “Tell me. Are they a man? Are they a woman?”</p><p>Crux merely stares at her, hands folded neatly over her datapad. The window beckons evening light, orange on their shoulders, the inner colors of a flame consuming the office. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t offer any telling characteristic for those sharp blue eyes to catch on and tear apart, capable of weathering the threat of fangs from an experienced wolf. </p><p>“You can give me some kind of hint. I came all the way out here from the Remav system. The Charlatan suddenly stakes a claim on H-047c and doesn’t even have the curtesy to say hello?” She shifts in her chair, taking a different angle, searching for cracks in a poker face, “They know I work out of that radioactive death trap,” Her eyes narrow, “Right?”</p><p>“You work out of many unclaimed parts of Andromeda. But not for soil.” </p><p>Finally earning a word returned and one she can’t argue with, Meriweather turns her lips into a sharpened angle, “So she speaks. True, you have me there.” Sighing, making a show of taking her boots down off the desk, she settles her position to stand, “But I had partnership with Aroane, and he did me plenty of favors, transporting <em>my</em> goods.” She stalks the desk, dragging her fingers across the datapads, and along the angles of the monitor, “We understood each other, stayed out of the way unless otherwise stated. And he <em>was</em> looking for rocks.” That hand settles down on Crux’s shoulder, strong fingers curling in a vice-like grip. </p><p>“Look at this uniform,” Her mouth comes down close, canines sharp to the vulnerable round of Crux’s ear, “It sure is something… I return back from business out in the far reaches of space and I learn Sloane’s taken a bullet for poor reflexes and suddenly the Collective is everywhere. And they’ve got <em>rules</em>.” </p><p>“We aren’t planning on adopting your business, if that’s what you’re implying.”</p><p>Meriweather smooths the wrinkles she’s pressed into the jacket, patting her with mock sincerity, “Sloane wasn’t interested in the politics of smuggling, although she did pay good credit for what she wanted.” Stepping away, she approaches the large window, “Everything’s been decided by brute force since we got here, since we dropped that pathetic pretense we’re past our own nature. Sloane sat in that throne because she demanded it, earned it. But now the Charlatan’s taken over and we’re back to order and regulation?” An exact, knowing gaze moves over the city arching in the fading light, squinting with arms folded loosely over expensive armor; there’s money in her assessments, in her quality and she wears it well. Her broad shoulders cast a shadow back over Crux, elongating, reaching deeper and deeper into the office.</p><p>“I won’t turn a blind eye for a second Initiative.” She turns those critical eyes over her shoulder, the muted red of a tattoo across her eyes coming alive in the fading sunset. </p><p>Crux regards her, having rotated in her chair. “Then we’re at an understanding.”</p><p>Meriweather only stares back, daring her to voice a position, reveal the leanings of the Collective, a vulture to weakness. Identifying as one agent of chaos, a benefactor to a dog-eat-dog mentality, if Sloane sat on a throne made from Kett bones, Meriweather sits on a throne of trafficked skulls, skulls of a variety of associations. Liam has taken many lost exiles under his wing since the first outpost, repurposing their intelligence for a spot in the daylight, where their names could be written and remembered, and with his light, there is inevitable darkness, this smuggler curling a finger to those who think they have nothing left to lose so she can remind them there are worse places than desperation. </p><p>“The Collective places no claim, nor voices any opinion for your manner of business. We have no intention of regulating the open market of space but instead welcome your return to the Port as long as you follow the basic rules of conduct.”</p><p>“Which are?” </p><p>“Brandish Outcast emblem and you’ll be regarded as a hostile, unpaid tabs give the seller the right to forfeit your life and no touching the human Pathfinder under any circumstance.” </p><p>Meriweather hums in interest, the sound guttural, deep, and her wide lips spread in a slow smile, “One of those rules isn’t like the others. I’m assuming that only applies here on Kadara, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s just for the security of keeping that outpost deal.” She steps back around the desk, blond hair loose around her face, straight and cresting her shoulders and melding in the ever-changing light, “But either way, if I meet the Pathfinder out in space, he’s free game. Maybe I’ll see what the Collective is willing to pay for him alive. Wouldn’t it be just like Andromeda if the Charlatan outbid even the Initiative for their star soldier?” A hyena with a horrible joke, the bloody mouth laughing over the dead body of a kill, Meriweather’s laughter echoes in the hallways as she leaves the room to have a drink over dark and cruel deals to vanish people from the shadowed corners of their world, her reestablished presence official and another consequence to the untamable maw of their universe.  </p><p>Xxx</p><p>Keema stands by the plot of land at the sulfur lakes, looking on with a complicated expression, far too deep in a variety of emotions to be read without context, or Angaran insight. She bends down, puts her hands through the soil, feels Kadara and murmurs a few whispered words into the dirt of her world. Other Angara with her do the same, letting it run through their fingers back to the land, closing their eyes in the melding of their energies. The outpost will be built here, and they are inviting peace to themselves and the land itself for its new use, a ceremony of giving to the Initiative. </p><p>Jaal stands nearby, closer than any of the other Tempest team members, and upon her standing, he reaches out to her and they press their palms together, looking into each other’s gazes with an intimacy unusual for objective political deals. For now, these details are meant only for those within the inner layers of nuanced politics as they build a skeleton able to carry muscle and a functional nervous system, one that won’t break at the first critique, the critical eye parading like a virus to fresh cells.</p><p>Keema closes her eyes, pleased and a vibration might be felt if any of the Tempest members were more sensitive to the electrical currents of the air. What does joy feel like as it resonates to the stars? Only the possibility of a law of equivalent exchange could tell them, as they feed good messages out in hopes of good ones in return. </p><p>Liam leans into Ryder like a schoolboy who can’t resist a joke coming to mind, “Feels kind of like we shouldn’t be watching.” From behind Ryder’s back, Peebee punches him swiftly on the arm, earning an honest, “Ow!” that rises a little too loudly in the air for it not to draw eyes. For most of the ceremony, they’ve stood by as an audience in silent respect but finally getting antsy, commentary is beginning to escape. </p><p>Vetra, calm, flipping through her omni-tool, doing business in moments that mirror downtime, give opportunity for multitasking, murmurs, amused, “You kind of deserved that, Liam. Don’t you have a contact you play around with psychic connection with?” She makes sure not to speak too loudly but glances up at the final movements. </p><p>“Yeah, like, in the bedroom-“</p><p>Jaal approaches, mouth curved with good will, “Still can’t tell the touch of budding friendship from the spark of affection? This must be why Verand has yet to take you to her favorite place on Aya. You are just <em>friends</em>.” He appears refreshed, delight clear in his eyes, no longer a risk for serious reprimand. His companions relax at the shoulders, falling out of attention or at the least breathing easier. They are closing up, and now free to talk. </p><p>Liam waggles a finger, making a noise to stop him, “Ah, ah, ah, that’s not what she said.” </p><p>“We all speak, she knows a sister of mine.”</p><p>“Nothing’s sacred.” Liam mutters ironically, glancing to the approaching Nomad with Gil in the driver’s seat, pulling a wheeled crate with supplies now that they have the green light. </p><p>“Anyways, follow up question,” His mood recovers, quick to bounce back, “What do you mean take me to her favorite place?” Around them Keema’s soldiers collect their various markings to grace the land and load their vehicles, their approval the deal’s mark on Kadara’s surface. </p><p>“Don’t you know about that custom, Liam?” Peebee teases, swinging an arm around him, pulling him down, “That’s a sign they like you. Like, like you like you.” She boops his nose, smirking devilishly, playful with her ammo. </p><p>“How would you know that?”</p><p>“Been to a few places myself.”</p><p>Jaal nods his assent, “Peebee brings great knowledge when she comes to Aya. Very popular. Almost too popular.” He narrows his eyes, but all in humor, and the two laugh while Liam continues to demand better insider tips, jealous about the Asari’s head start to one of his acclaimed goals, to make honest connections across cultures, and welcome one another into each other’s lives with a permanency of the dual effort to create a place everyone can call home. And that she beat him to the punch. </p><p>Ryder has approached the Nomad to Gil who is leaning out the rolled down window, pointing around the flattened space of land. They sweep a hand and Gil nods, and drives away, Cora walking to her Pathfinder, thoughtful, studious even. They’ve stood in the quiet of the badlands for over an hour now and while not exactly peaceful, the possibilities of danger over every hill, their formality to the land went without obstruction, giving way to reflection. She looks him up and down while he’s focused on Gil’s parking and asks, “How are your headaches?” </p><p>He pulls his attention away, unfolding his arms, “They’ve gotten better since we’ve landed on Kadara. Might be the air.” He gives Keema’s driver a wave, their part in providing the outpost its coordinates finished. </p><p>Lifting a hand as well, Cora waits for the opportunity to return to their conversation. “The Tempest filters the air for almost all impurities.” She says, brow coming together slightly, “Do you have the temperature in your room set too low?”</p><p>“It’s the same as the bridge.” He replies, “I don’t touch the thermostat. Not after Gil had us all trapped for that lecture that one time. How long did we sit there? I swear it was an hour.” </p><p>She laughs with him, seeing a familiar easy going crinkle in his facials and a fragile emotion touches her eyes. They’ve been together all these months, watched the world fall apart and rebuilt it with their own hands, holding each other in those calloused palms when the responsibility didn’t provide anything more than fear and unsurmountable chances for failure. They know everything about each other, or at least she thought they did, their final outpost proving their proximity still insufficient, somehow lacking, giving way to tightly held secrets, secrets she doesn’t understand. But they laugh, and share memory and here he is her Pathfinder, her Ryder, her friend. This is their victory, their outpost and their final reason in her mind to be here on this planet, for any extended length of time and what she won’t give honestly to the dirt is slim with that godsent perspective. </p><p>Gil saunters towards them, pointing a finger, “I heard my name! Don’t you dare say a thing about my parking. I saw you staring.”</p><p>“Can’t believe you complained about the one time I backed up into a frozen snowbank on Voeld.”</p><p>“You know that was all user error.”</p><p>“I had low visibility; what’s your excuse?”</p><p>Gil opens his palms like its obvious, “Uh, do you not see the trailer of supplies? I parked for two and could rotate her on a dime.”</p><p>Ryder’s grin spreads, eyes sparkling, “Wanna bet?”</p><p>With the trailer unhooked, crates and supplies wheeled out for makeshift seats, they place an old Angaran coin in a clear space in the middle of their open plot of land. Bets taken, loser buying the drinks for the evening, they smooth the dirt and Ryder sits down in the driver seat, smile growing minutely to Peebee’s cheering. </p><p>“Sweet talk that set of wheels like you do on TV!” </p><p>He palms the wheel, backing the Nomad up smooth like butter, rotating the tires with an experienced hand, the hours spent clear in his maneuvering. Gil watches, critical, brow drawn seriously, and Drack claps his back when Ryder steps out and says, “You’re going to have a tough time beating that!”</p><p>The engineer laughs briefly, confident, “Oh, I don’t know, I had Ryder’s wallet on the table all night back on the Nexus for our last round of betting.”</p><p>His Pathfinder walks up, cordially offering him the first look at his tire marks by a hand, “Be my guest.”</p><p>They all approach, Liam whistling, impressed, “Can’t be more than a few centimeters.”</p><p>“Don’t just estimate! Measure it.”</p><p>“Sir, yes sir.” </p><p>“Give me that, I’ll do it.”</p><p>Vetra smirks, “Don’t cheat, Gil.”</p><p>“I don’t need to cheat.” He replies haughtily, squatting, “I’m going to put Ryder into his next paycheck fair and square.” </p><p>“Go easy on me, Gil, I’ve still got payments out on my omni-tool.”</p><p>Cora’s eyes harden, her amusement thinning but Gil only snorts, gliding the tape measure back into a pocket, “Flash a few of those promising Pathfinder smiles and you’d get your discount. I’m not letting you trick me into losing on purpose.”</p><p>Peebee’s lips curl up at that and she says, “He plays innocent until he has a winning hand and suddenly, ‘bam!’ he’s pulled all the chips to his side.”</p><p>They all wander back towards their seats, murmuring their agreement to Ryder’s harmless expression and light deflection, “I get lucky.” Which has Vetra cooing with enjoyment, “Oh, listen to that. He acts like he doesn’t totally read all of our facials while we’ve got our guards lowered and use them to his advantage.”</p><p>“Nothing to read here, Ryder!” Gil calls from the Nomad’s open window, jabbing a finger, “I’m ordering the best bottle on the shelf!” He turns the engine on and goes at it from the opposite direction, arm settled along the doorframe, one hand on the wheel. </p><p>“That’s some confidence if I’ve ever seen any.” Cora comments, Ryder chuckling, relaxed, looking his age, although the weight in his eyes still holds, a scar on his soul running deep, something a soldier can’t dodge no matter their abilities. But Cora seems consoled, to think it is enough here, with them all, even on Kadara, it is enough for him to be satisfied. </p><p>They watch, seeing Gil glide backwards without hesitation, tilting the Nomad, a risk, flashy, just like his grin as he saunters out, calling, “C’mere, let’s take a look at my victory!”</p><p>But upon inspection, he’s rolled over the coin and he, baffled, scratches his head like he’s looking at an equation that’s one number off but he can’t find the error. “Now-“ He starts, but then inspects it from another angle, “Wait a minute..”</p><p>“We can wait all you want, nothing’s changing. You grounded it into the dirt.” Peebee says, shrugging to his stink eye and Ryder, not one to gloat, says lightly, “You might want to rethink picking the best bottle on the shelf.”</p><p>“Dammit, Ryder! If this had been the poker table!”</p><p>“Drinks on Gil tonight!” Liam cheers, yanking him and Vetra into a hug on each side, deaf to the engineer’s protests, only settling down when Cora puts her hands on her hips and says, “Alright, now that we’ve had our fun, let’s get to work.”</p><p>Laying the groundwork takes time, hot sun on their backs and sweat on their brows before the basics are set and Gil has a blueprint mapped for the necessary buildings. </p><p>Liam leans on his shovel, gloves still on but stripped down to his white undershirt with his bodysuit tied around his waist, “I get the importance of taking the bull by the horns and all that. But why are we literally building our own outpost? I thought <em>we</em> were past all this.” Behind him Drack carries a panel of metal easily, Peebee ducking when he swings it around to lay it in its marked place. </p><p>Cora’s got Gil’s blueprints uploaded to her omni-tool and she inspects his work, “We’re mapping the layout, making sure we understand what we’re putting our people in. It’s too dangerous to have our own people down here yet so we should know exactly what it’s supposed to look like. Do you want the Collective to build secrets into our outpost?”</p><p>Vetra tosses him a cold bottle and he catches it, cracking it open, “Wouldn’t put it past them.”</p><p>“From a political standpoint,” Gil chimes in, “There’ll be better security for everyone moving out here if they know their Pathfinder literally laid it out for them. Plus,” His grin goes mischievous, his sulking mood finally retreating to the focus of satisfying task, “This means we get to name her. I’ve got it, okay?” He brings everyone in close, “Ditaeon.” Glancing between the faces, Cora’s waiting raised brow, Vetra staring over her water bottle, he gives it the necessary suspense, settling nicely between the dirt on their cheeks proving exhaustion and their interested silence. </p><p>“Look around us,” He says, “Just sulfur and hills for days. Any person getting this assignment is about to be Ditaeon-ed. ‘Deployed in the ass end of nowhere.’” It sits for a brief moment, digesting before Drack and Peebee explode in laughter, the joke hitting just right, Gil grinning, proud in his earned laughter, and the team melds together like a good wave, gorgeous on their shores and fluid in its togetherness and for all the chaos in the universe that refuses to be tamed, they prove unity is a comfort to be indulged in. An inside joke births the Kadara outpost and the beginning of a night to be remembered. </p><p>The Tempest team returns to the slums with glowing pride and success written in their every step. An outpost is a victory to them, politics aside. Pirates like Meriweather expect nothing to change in the hostile layers of Andromeda and actively threaten bloodshed at the chance of Kadara going white and blue but the Charlatan and his many counterparts, his mini Charlatans growing like weeds, already know that will never happen. </p><p>Nothing can change black to its previous colors. </p><p>Ryder waves the Nomad onward to the parking garages, walking in close but he has yet to notice Reyes lounging with his motorcycle and stops, breathing, tank top white and smudged, pants dangerously casual, holding thighs and the curve of his backside which draws the eyes with the dirty rag tucked into a pocket. He’s got gloves on, to protect his palms, hair messy from a long’s day of work and looks honest, straight forward, a sunny day after a low stormy rain. Reyes aches, feels it spreading like it’s entered his blood stream and he can’t prevent it traveling to his heart and head. The lack of sleep is starting to wear thin on his natural defenses, holding emotion closer to the surface, the ice dangerously thinning overtop the depths, ready to shatter at something too heavy one step too far in the wrong direction. He walks away, to grab his tools from his garage, but mostly to avoid sensations bubbling up from the depths.  </p><p>The old-fashioned padlock beeps with each number pressed, long kept chapters and secrets of his becomings stored away, organized for only one person, a maze of decisions, and projects made from scraps. His spine tightens, and on the last number he slows, sensing something. A hand settles by his shoulder, sprinkled with freckles up the forearm and crinkling, playful honeyed hazel meets his slow gaze, one honed with special control. Each beat of his heart resounds throughout his entire body. </p><p>“Good way to get hurt, Pathfinder.” Reyes informs him, and Ryder leans onto the garage door, turned so they can look at each other fully as he types the final number into the passcode, “Fancy way to tell me I snuck up on you.” </p><p>Reyes glances to his boots, loosely tied and hardly stealth and then back to Ryder who has a dimple showing slightly in his smile, “What?” It’s a little too unguarded, too genuine, too telling.</p><p>Dangerous, his instincts tell him, and he ignores them pointedly, “Finished for the day?” The door is open but he wasn’t ready to share this part of himself, nothing crafted, no alcohol or distraction to deviate attention, and no Kadara made charm he can borrow to show his craft. Just the behind the scenes, the makings of a man who came here with a stolen dream. </p><p>“Yeah, everyone needed a shower and for Gil, a nap. What are you up to?”</p><p>Hesitation holds him, the cracks splintering, water seeping upward but finally Reyes leads him into the dark, turning on the light with motion, and goes to a bench with a toolbox and various crates for supplies and parts, “Fixing my bike.” </p><p>“You ride?” </p><p>“You sound surprised.”</p><p>“I’m impressed.” Ryder picks up a wrench, looking at it, settling against the bench, “What can’t you do?”</p><p>Reyes glances to him, but it’s said off handedly and with sincerity so he takes the compliment, a raven to a shiny object for a secret nest. Ryder seems at ease standing in his dimly lit garage where his ship is covered, bulky and all his various machineries collected await their use amongst the dusting containers and stacked equipment. His eyes don’t wander for intel with that involuntary passing judgment, soothing the territorial instinct that tells him all privileged boys from good backgrounds are the same if given enough time to show their true nature. It reminds him sorely of that whisper he once felt in a shower on the Tempest, a place he didn’t belong and was still welcomed and how even when their roles are reversed, an invitation to his darkness only brings him the ripe, full heart of a man accepted. </p><p>They sit in silence, and Reyes is lulled into a space he expected could only be achieved by himself. </p><p>“Been busy the past few days?” Ryder finally asks, and Reyes deflects easier than he should, “The devil finds work for idle hands.” He replies mildly and changes the subject, “Blueprints finished?”</p><p>“Basically.” Ryder hums, “Though we had a big discussion about whether housing should go below ground or above. Sure, the rain and weather can be unpredictable, for now, but think about those sunrises and the reflections off the lake waters. That’s something to wake up to.”</p><p>Reyes settles against the bench as well, thinking. They stand in his corner claimed, one owned by the smuggler who snuck into the Andromeda mission with a mouth full of lies and nothing in the Milky Way to hold him down. Here he has many things, and this planet survives like a reflection to his person, devouring what it can reach and claiming the barren poverty of resources like a challenge. To Kadara, he is worthy of the given title ‘Charlatan’ but in front of the golden soldier, the grime, the scraped clean labels, and weathered tools all present a certain level of doom, a meter to his reparable parts that is totally in the red. Is anything worth a sunrise when there’s no tomorrow promised?</p><p>Tools ready, Ryder looks him up and down then his eyes crinkle, “I’ve only really been able to appreciate the sun here on Kadara. Thanks to someone.” And although Reyes is unwilling to voice anything close to his vulnerable feelings, the sacred act of allowing someone to see what he’s been able to produce without calling for deflections and crafted distance thought impossible, he relishes the terrifying ordeal of watching the pretense he can be anyone and thus is no one getting further and further with each step Ryder takes toward him. <em>I know a place here on this hell planet that we can watch the sun rise to match the sunset I’ve shown you.</em> But he can’t say it. </p><p> Ryder nods in the direction of the bike, “I’ll help. I’ve changed quite a few tires.” The intricate means for more time together, a reason to stand side by side, the cigarette, the ‘job,’ the favor, and Reyes sequesters the task, one he wanted a quiet mind for, letting Ryder in dangerously close even if he doesn’t realize it. </p><p>Outside of escapism, Ryder leans into his company. Not just someone for a drink late at night, or a companion who is compatible to please the physical body. </p><p>Running his fingers along the slash marks, Ryder squats next to the sleek black motorcycle and feels the anger, the vicious attack slowly. “This looks..” He says, voice trailing off as he leans long, shirt trailing up for a peek at his lower back, to check the other tire, “Who did this?” He asks and Reyes parries answering with anything of substance, avoiding the shield coming to his defense having in so many ways earned the knife. </p><p>“It’s nothing unusual for Kadara.” </p><p>Lachlan’s dark eyes flash on him, that slight smile that might look like his own, reserved, pulled back, and words that sit with him crawl out of those lips that hold blood on the tongue.  </p><p><em>He doesn’t understand you. He can’t. People like him, people like him-</em> </p><p>He closes his eyes, but it resonates, the accusations, <em>people like him who want to play God! People like him who think they get it-</em></p><p>Give a man a sunrise and he’ll find living out in the boonies worth it! Tell him hard work makes the dream and he’ll break his back. All the Pathfinder has to do is sell the outpost, forget the common man, and move on to bigger victories. </p><p>Ryder has his boot underneath the boosted tire, shimmying the axel out of the back wheel, kneeling before him with a certain air of focus and attention that feels far too exposing for the devil in the back of his mind with her knife and her dark reminders that at one point he only thought of the Pathfinder as a means to another advantage and nothing like the man he sees now and the danger in making men out of heroes when they’re created from a mountain of bones of people like himself. </p><p>Ryder moves the caliper, and then the chain and carefully rolls back the wheel, “You got the front wheel?” He offers the wrench, and looks around the bike. They touch fingers, glove to glove, and Reyes slowly takes it.</p><p><em>-Play God! People like him-</em> He lets it bite into his palm, squeezing it so tight. He’s wanted to hurt people like Ryder, collapse the system that makes their ethical high grounds so easy and their smug disdain so quick. Teach them what it means to suddenly get the disadvantage, shatter all the pretty mirages that say all men are equal with equal opportunity and return the short end of the stick with interest. </p><p>
  <em>He’ll be the destruction of everything you’ve built. Some rich boy’s pocket. People like him think they get it, but it’s all just a performance. Unmarked graves. Does he know our names? Does he know?</em>
</p><p>Reyes watches Ryder roll the wheel down, shoulders strong, and suddenly Ryder looks up, quirks a smile, chest visible, and several chains click, sliding out from the safe haven of his tank top. The surging darkness wells up, the sleepless nights, the death of a companion, two dark eyes frozen from a dark doorway in a dark place. </p><p>Reyes stares, then finally asks, “Whose dog tags are those?”</p><p>Ryder glances down, and hooks his finger in them, “My father’s. And the first soldier I found when we went to Eos.” He holds it in his fist, delicately at first then he squeezes it, like he might give a hug, wrap the arms first and then hold tight, “He was my age when I started recon work. Could’ve just as easily been me.” </p><p>Reyes’ heart pangs all the way up into his throat and he checks, “What was his name?”</p><p>Ryder’s serious eyes meet his, and he doesn’t hesitate, “Nathan Hills. But his friends called him ‘Nate.’ I like to bring him with me whenever we have an outpost established.”</p><p>All Ryder has to do is sell the dream so why does he care so sincerely?</p><p>The bike rolls easily back into his garage space and Ryder grins with a few fresh smudges on his clothing. Slowly, as Reyes puts his tools away, he circles the ship, lifting the cover with a boyish curiosity, “Is this what brought you to Kadara?” He examines the hulk, and whistles prettily, “You’ve made body adjustments, haven’t you? The Initiative has nothing as agile as this.” He vanishes beneath the cover and Reyes watches him, following the boots as Ryder says, muffled, “Could use an update on the thrust engines though.” </p><p>“I sacrificed the boost for better stealth.” </p><p>Ryder peeks back out from under the tarp, “That’s just like you.” </p><p>Vindicated by their togetherness that easily routes the repetition of earning trust never ending, insists his soul isn’t too far off, pulls him too forward a step, Reyes offers, “Do you want to see the inside?” The black ship for the man with the black heart, he welcomes Ryder in to the narrow space he lived in, the necessary breath of tempered air after everything went to hell, and his first real step outside the high stakes game of pretend. He and the Initiative’s mission were both just paperwork to be filed, nothing the same on the other side. </p><p>Ryder sits in the pilot’s seat, leg room ample, black material distinct against his white top. He splays his fingers across the dark dashboard, feeling the sensation of the ship and Reyes watches from behind, arms folded, ruminative. </p><p>The cot where he slept is a lifted nook in the back, near the small standing shower and cooler. Ryder stares into the paneled glass, seeing something in his mind’s eye, and slowly he relaxes back into the seat, and murmurs, “Must’ve been peaceful.” </p><p>Boots dirty, scuffed, pants with stains from the garage and a smudge on his cheek, Ryder looks nothing like the expertly shined and polished celebrity that makes promises for thousands and embodies the military of the Milky Way. He sighs, kicks up his feet exactly where Reyes had for many hours in travel, folds his gloved hands over his belly button and sees the stars from a memory. Long ago, Reyes promised himself he would see if everything that made the Pathfinder was just varnish, but he’s realized this stripped down soldier is just like him, a man with a thousand faces, some for survival and others demanded of him, and the gamble is no longer the measuring of cost and benefit, or how long the topic can hold his interest until it wanes. The jabs from former company are beginning to take their toll in his favoritism where eventually he’ll either prove them right or wrong and deal with those consequences.  </p><p>This gamble is for them, where they can be roasted into a brittle char of ashes by their destinies, or lack thereof, and their truths, the self-sacrificing hero and the king of deception and those around them. He baited Cora, and wagered on Ryder’s affection, took the risk that ultimately becomes Ryder’s to pay, continued old habits. He hasn’t told him anything, not given word to his emotion but to watch the intensity to which Ryder protects what turns even his closest companions away and enjoys the life he built, finds sanctuary in him when he could just be another face in the neglected crowd makes him think he might one day admit something. He looks at Ryder’s profile, the delicate turn of eyelashes and the scars from his helmet scattered like falling stars and sees himself months ago, sitting there, looking at space and thinking what he can make of himself here.</p><p>Slowly approaching the chair, Reyes enters the vision, catching Ryder’s attention as he leans down and kisses him, kisses the man in his seat looking far too comfortable and yearns. They are only their circumstances apart (even if that distance is as far as a universe) and Ryder knows this, and carries names to make him soft. </p><p>“Is this thanks for the bike?” He murmurs, but is hushed by the expression that Reyes can’t mask and without looking away, he takes his gloves off and touches along his cheek and jaw, and draws him slowly into another kiss that sears, almost hurts. </p><p>Pulling away, he stares hard into those amber eyes and steps back, slipping out of the ship. And he isn’t in sight when Ryder follows a moment later, turning around in the garage, searching. </p><p>“Reyes?”</p><p>Xxx</p><p>Finding a seat in Kralla’s Song isn’t a problem without the force of Outcast guards demanding special service, the evening coming on smooth, a long day of labor making their first beer of the night crisp, satisfying and insisted from the man paying. Keema is invited, and she sits beside Jaal, willing to enjoy a few drinks with the Collective’s new allies, unfazed by the handcuffs that attach the Initiative to them, the trained gun that keeps them pretending to be civil despite the inherent knowledge on both sides they wouldn’t be sitting like this without blackmail and disturbed motivations. </p><p>“I hope it isn’t a problem we’ve picked out a name for the outpost.” Ryder says, thumb aimlessly smearing the condensation on his glass, the glow of the low lights, dusty with the quality of air, making their drinks shine with a golden red hue. </p><p>Keema lowers hers back to the table, “Oh, no, it shouldn’t be. Of course, the Charlatan will have the final say about the matter. But I see no issue considering you’ve so kindly allowed us a say in the leadership.”</p><p>Cora stiffens on the other side of Vetra, eyeing Ryder, alert, completely in tune with his movements, his minute body language. She believes naivety the cause for taking her eyes off him on their first day, a lack of preparation in the face of seeing a secret with such gravitational pull and then just busyness for the next but the Pathfinder doesn’t react to the title of the man who holds him in his palm and says, “The list provided does include those not yet out of cryo but by the time we have transport ready for the first wave, everyone will be well ready to travel.”</p><p>“Your considerations are graciously received, Pathfinder.” Keema smiles, “Anyone brought to Kadara from the Nexus will have the Collective’s protection. Please, allow me to order the next round in our budding relationship. What shall we-“</p><p>“Shots!” Peebee demands, slamming her finished beer down, quick to get her word in so no one can offer a counter argument.  </p><p>“Damn, Peebs!” Liam laughs and she says, rocking back in her chair, “Trust me, I’ve been eyeing that Vodka, second to the left, right below that whisky, see it? And I’m telling you, that’s a good one.”</p><p>“Shots to the, what did you call the outpost?” Keema asks and Gil grins, “Ditaeon.”</p><p>“Shots to the Ditaeon it is.” She stands and slips into the number of patrons standing around with drinks in their hands, the Angara touching her softly at her passing, giving friendly greeting and raising their glasses to her. </p><p>Suvi and Kallo join them not too long after, all smiles, and pull up their chairs, getting a couple beers to start. Everyone’s shots are waiting and as they all settle in, conversation in the corners smoothing out, they all look to Ryder, Peebee lifting hers with grace, “Give us some of your inspirational voice.”</p><p>He laughs, and waves it off, “You guys don’t need that.”</p><p>“We do,” Cora says, her eyes serious, as usual, but her affection is evident, “I’d like to hear it.” And her gaze says, ‘We need it like we need you.’ </p><p>“Speech!” Liam booms, and Ryder grabs his shot glass, thoughtful for a brief moment, “Okay, okay.” Suvi rests on her chair back, the seat turned around and Drack rolls his good shoulder, propping the elbow. Keema sits in pleasant quiet, the chair at the table with the Pathfinder one of high esteem and good favor, a chair that has cycled many powerful agents. </p><p>“It’s been a long journey here, to this many outposts. When we first got our feet down on Eos, there wasn’t a lot of hope, and we buried our first voyagers.” Ryder grips the glass a little tighter, “We carried dog tags back to the Nexus, and with them their sacrifice. It’s a weight to carry a soldier home, and every single one of us knows how heavy that is. But here, thanks to this team, thanks to all of you, we can claim that future we’ve dreamed about.” He makes eye contact with Keema, Collective soldiers listening in over their drinks, their own private stakes in the Pathfinder present, “It’s about time we called Andromeda home, and pulled those dreams into reality. The Milky Way would be proud of what we’ve managed to build and you all should be too.” </p><p>“Dreams to reality!” Liam echoes, lifting his glass and they all come together, the clinking over voices, “To Ditaeon! To the Tempest! To the Pathfinder!” </p><p>A collective burn fizzles through the group, hissing and breathing and in the balance of acknowledging their struggles, the burden of soldiers who live on, to their needs for optimism and victories, the Pathfinder stands in his title, that lantern in the shadow, the first step forward, against all the fear, and the back to follow when the pathway seems to dark to walk alone. He has not changed, their leader who strides into the unknown, and there is a deep, heartfelt reassurance in his consistency against everything. </p><p>Keema brings them favored drinking snacks, dried foods, fruits salted and preserved in the special air of Kadara, Jaal pleased to work alongside Suvi in identifying their names and their properties. Gil grabs Peebee up out of her chair, making her cackle and drags her along to grab more drinks, laughter somehow easier, the dangers of political ramifications distant now, just like the Nexus, the magnifying glass to their mistakes no longer threatening fire to their weak points and a much-needed accomplishment fresh on their records. The safety of their group melds into the atmosphere but one team member is still on alert. </p><p>Glasses stack up, only grabbed when the second waitress comes into her shift, greeting them gaily, pleased to see the return of the notorious Tempest team. Drack pours two beers into his mouth at a time, a party trick he thinks is hilarious even against Gil’s protests of its charm and conversations grow. </p><p>Ryder’s laughter, infectious, makes Liam grin, and he says, “Can’t believe you took this photo without me noticing! Reminds me of that time you got so sunburnt you basically had to sleep standing up!” </p><p>“Yeah, you took an entire video of my pain and suffering.”</p><p>“God, I remember! That was when I had more time to document all of our adventures.” Liam sighs, nostalgic for only months prior, danger in the speed they are moving proving even a week’s time possible of massive alterations to their lives, each moment needing to be spent with the inherent awareness of its impermanence. He glances into Ryder’s omni-tool then says, “Hey, that was right around the time I asked Vidal about putting an outpost on Kadara. Can you believe it? How far we’ve come?”</p><p>Cora’s divided attention from the conversation she is sitting in with Vetra and Kallo reacts, and Ryder chuckles, glancing at the fresh round of shots, “Yeah, back when you just blatantly offered misinformation to see what you could learn. You’re as bad as some of these information brokers sometimes.”</p><p>“Oh whatever! You were on board with it, gave you all the more reason to check in with your favorite agent.”</p><p>“The Initiative had no intentions of putting an outpost here on Kadara at that time and you know it. You were just fishing.”</p><p>“And look what I eventually caught, an entire outpost. Who would’ve thought it was the right person I was asking about it too.” </p><p>“More like the Collective caught the outpost.” Ryder says much to Cora’s displeasure, but Liam only knuckles his shoulder, “You’re sweating the small stuff as usual. You had my back the entire time, made sure my line and bait looked official.”</p><p>Ryder’s eyes crinkle, and despite his chastising, he looks grateful, “Still, I’ve told you you’re taking big risks revealing information to contacts out there without a little more reservation.”</p><p>“It’s worked this far hasn’t it? And you would know, Mr. sees-the-good-in-everyone, we gotta take chances, put faith in people.” He glides his glass and clinks Ryder’s and Ryder looks across the table, “How many does this-“</p><p>“Don’t sweat the small stuff!” Peebee reiterates, “Didn’t you hear the man!” She slams her glass into theirs, almost spilling them all and they toss them back, her leaving little room for further discussion. Cora peers through newly arrived pirates, the sea of red and her companions who are loose in their own world and stands, her round still untouched on the table. </p><p>“Where ya going, Cora?” Suvi asks, looking up, and she answers, “Bathroom.” Escaping the maze of chairs and legs, she frees herself from their bubble of warmth and geniality for the bar, easily gliding an elbow into the free space next to a man holding a whisky and leaning on the surface. </p><p>“I thought you might show up, sneak around in the background.” </p><p>Reyes looks to her from the corner of his eye, sipping his drink calmly, although he was hoping to avoid her, “You can hardly call standing at the bar sneaking around.” </p><p>“I’ll call it what it is.” Her hostility feels like a gun pressed to his side, a threat censored for the crowd but her eyes tell him she could pull the weapon on him. She speaks of more than just this moment, this brief glimpse into his decisions, and the depth to which she distrusts him is bone cracking cold like a trench in the recesses of the ocean. Now that they are coexisting again on the surface of Kadara, and their presences are more than two struggling solitary situations, clashing in their strengths, she wants to be faster, the better judge of when to draw a weapon or lay down a rule. For the night, he was planning to stay out of sight but she isn’t a fool to think a glimpse is only by coincidence. Low defenses create opportunity and she sees a shark waiting for blood in the water. </p><p>“Maybe if it wasn’t my Port, we could still call my movements sneaking but those days are long gone.”</p><p>She scoffs, her brows hard in her glare, “Your ‘inheritance’ of the Port doesn’t change a thing about you.”</p><p>Did she come here to insult him? To lay a claim to his challenge? Or maybe to prevent him coming closer. He doesn’t shy to her animosity, and slowly lowers his glass, “If our accomplishments don’t make our reputations then we might find the Pathfinder to be a far different man upon inspection.” She isn’t wrong for stepping into his path if she is looking to become a blockade for observation but she won’t shame him into crawling away from it. They both know he has eyes everywhere if he wanted to see. Nothing they’ve done has been without surveillance and yet he thinks this is more personal than spying. She doesn’t want him joining them, or thinking he is welcome to try, even in the celebration that is just as much his as it is theirs. </p><p>Glowering, Cora’s intensity heats, turning passionate in its contempt. “Don’t you dare talk like you and Ryder are the same. Him protecting the Nexus is lightyears apart from you tearing this place from Sloane. We’re here to make negotiations happen for the Initiative, and just because you’ve managed to work some shit stain’s betrayals to your own benefits as well as ours doesn’t make you trustworthy. You haven’t proven to me you aren’t just another threat to our security and I won’t stand for you using your upper hand to force Ryder to do your bidding while you act like you’re actually an ally.” All the words she wants to say bite through her tone, and while Keema stays her distance, pretending she is naïve to all her inside knowledge, she glances their way. </p><p>Any other instance, he would have endured the antagonism, taken favor in his own motives and let it all fade like evaporation but it’s sticking like tar and he’s an open flame. </p><p> Coldly, his tone presenting disregard to cover anger, he agrees to her loaded gun in their contest and matches her, “All very valiant and noble of you as the Pathfinder’s second. Only one problem.” </p><p>She examines him, trying to figure his next move, determine the level of hostility beneath and Reyes throws back his drink, swallowing the burn so to let his whole body smolder with his heart and he clacks down the glass, “Let me show you.” He leans his elbow back onto the bar and waits as he stares into the Tempest’s table, watching the movement but specifically Cora follows his gaze on her Pathfinder. People move in and out of their line of sight, melding bodies close by intoxication and the constraints of Kralla’s Song but they have a clear view for the most part. </p><p>They both look on at the scene, Ryder laughing with the way his teeth show when he truly finds something amusing and Cora’s brow creases, the chink in her armor. A yearning touches her face, for a person she thinks deserves more and gets less, and seeing the window into a moment where cruelties can’t force them to bow is painful, heart wrenching. Here they are a team in friendship, not the final defenses against war and famine and their humanity is obvious. She breathes out slow through her nose, trying to reign it in, desperate to save these small, special places, and prove they are not just another expense like their remembered first voyagers. For now, they listen, observers, connoisseurs of emotion and he lights his rulebook on fire to prove a point as she looks for better ways to shield them from outside blows and keep these moments alive.  </p><p>“Remember that last huge party we had here?” Drack claps the table, almost knocking over Suvi’s glass which Vetra catches, “Damn could the Warden drink!” </p><p>“Still couldn’t beat me.” Peebee laughs, feet up and in Liam’s lap, flipping through his deck of cards for something to put her fingers to work on. </p><p>“Wasn’t Kaetus here too? I wonder what that guy’s doing. Hope he’s coping now that Sloane’s gone.” Liam says, plucking a card from Peebee’s spread offering, checks it, then puts it back for an attempt at magic. </p><p>“Plenty of Krogan defected and were allowed into the colony.” Drack says, “Curtesy of the Charlatan.”</p><p>Ryder’s eyes glance up and down Drack’s expression, eyelashes heavy with intoxication but he sits back and offers a smile to Peebee twirling Liam’s card from underneath his drink like a coaster. </p><p>“What are we-“ Cora whirls to him, resentful to see the Charlatan so easily able to survey their companionship and he hushes her with a brief touch of his heavy attention and says, “Just wait.”</p><p>Then, upon instinct coming alive, noticing the sensation of eyes on him, Ryder breaks his focus on the group. He turns, looks past them once and across the room before his gaze returns and she shocks at how his facials open. Everything changes. He reveals longing matured by time, profound in its intensity, an expression not meant for her, something she is aware is private, so private and completely for the man she thinks an enemy. The color falls from her cheeks to learn it is not hostile deception pulling Ryder beneath the waves like a cement block tied to his feet but that her Pathfinder jumps into the water by his own free will. Dare she call it what she believes it is, an unexpected and unguarded emotion, one that shouldn’t be here on Kadara in this bar full of pirates but undeniably alive in his eyes. He puts a hand to the table, ready to stand, but then he sees her and his expression folds, quickly masked and he flicks amber between the two, obvious in his own stunned searching.</p><p>Reyes leans into her, close to her over her shoulder, “I’m not forcing him to do anything.” Pride makes him bold because she’ll be unable to prove him wrong, even if she despises it, his glory in affection seemingly unearned and yet magnificently his. How easy she writes him off as beyond their Pathfinder’s reach, an irreparable mistake to be overcome and not a complicated man worth a second chance. His victory in a bar on his turf, where Ryder would choose to leave their happiest times for him, the man uninvited, barred out and treated like a traitor discovered to be masquerading as a sheep says that he will not be shot and paraded around their village as the villainous wolf who is the bearer of all their problems. Certain markings like an omni-tool hold a far different message now that she’s seen something not meant for her, something meant to be shielded by wool over the eyes. </p><p>Still reeling, Cora spins on him, hungering for violence and she isn’t sober enough to reign it in, the fist speeding toward his nose, only stopped by his palm. It stings, and she presses hard, hoping to twist free but he grips harder, staring at her around their stalemate. Behind her light brown eyes, confusion and reflection muddles thought for what she has seen, the man she wants for nothing but to be able to survive the title of Pathfinder telling of a complicated answer to his endurance, one that does everything but console her and the explosive anger settles atop, raging. How dare you, her eyes say and he tactfully lowers their hands out of sight without breaking eye contact, whispering, “Wouldn’t want the Pathfinder to see, would we?” </p><p>Ryder immediately moves his way through the crowd, putting a gentle hand to the arm he squeezes by, quickly trying to mediate what he thinks he saw and she softens, watching her put him in a spot, “What’s going on?” He demands, looking between them and she snatches her fist back, the surrounding guests hardly batting an eye at the minimal violence, speaking amongst each other without a second glance now that no blood is to be spilt. </p><p>“Nothing.” She says bitterly, knuckles stinging, just like her heart, but her eyes betray her need for discrepancy, glancing to Ryder’s omni-tool and back to Reyes who is watching with a satisfaction known by a man who has had really known nothing, sat with it like a companion and now lives unapologetically, taking what he wants, even claiming his earned stance beside a man who shouldn’t want anything to do with him. Secrecy has always been his means to keeping his wealth but long, cold winters of being scorned and snarled at makes devotion a pretty spring wind and he needs it right now, needs it so he won’t fall into that black hole Lachlan gouged into his back. </p><p>“Nothing indeed.” He echoes, earning the glower she pins him with. </p><p>They stare at each other, the soldier who believes there is righteousness in every decision, and the man who knows what real darkness does to weaknesses in flimsy moralistic egos. </p><p>Cora breaks eye contact, breathing. Finally seeing an important angle of the man beneath the title, the anger directed at Reyes quickly coils around a certain flavor of seething self-loathing. She thought she had given the Pathfinder that space to be just Ryder, to be just another team member, but ultimately, she’s proven only to be a moving function of the Initiative, another restriction, another set of rules by her own nature and personal principles, letting every other Pathfinder team mate make their own seat and bend their world so they can fit together but not him. Because she was supposed to be standing there, the undefined cruelty of her standards, the pedestal to the title has risen higher and higher, and she sees it now, that he carries even her requirements with him and how brutal they are, as he teeters on the ever-shifting foundation of what everyone demands of him. Had she been more attentive would they be standing here like this with the enemy? Would she have continued to box him in unbeknownst to the consequences had she known his needs were going to be so off brand?</p><p>“Cora.” Ryder warns, voice heavy with alcohol, the one word proving an unworthy explanation. </p><p>Reyes shakes his hand out, wrist buzzing and Cora’s eyes soften even further. Is this what you want, Ryder? She weathers in her guilt, because even though they have no guarantee of another sunrise and here he stands just one stride away from something that he would put himself on the line for, she is confidently boasting protection by denial. Could she stand to watch it? Could she stomach the idea that a man she doesn’t trust can hold something precious without breaking it? </p><p>“You’re lucky you’ve got fast reflexes.” She mutters, dignity heavy and suspicion clinging. </p><p>“You’re not the first person who’s tried to take me by surprise.”</p><p>It might’ve been called amusement if the disdain in her gaze wasn’t so in line with her sneer. But when she looks back to her Pathfinder, she sees he’s hurt, and it smothers any satisfaction gained from insult. Was this another member of their team, would she be so adamant to deny them, would she feel so righteous to stake her claim on their choices? Could she tell any other person they are to compromise for the sake of what she perceives as easier to navigate? Forever searching for reason within the fates on why leadership was taken from her, she is keenly aware how Ryder pulls his people in, his understanding nature that claims no stake on their coming and going. She can hold him down, tell him she knows what’s best for him, but who would return to such aggression masquerading as love? This pushes them apart as she fights to stay close and she doesn’t like what she could be pushing him toward. </p><p>“Hope this doesn’t affect our negotiations.” She finally says with plenty of swallowed poison, daring Reyes to protest to her piercing stare that pins him with deception and offenses. It’s the bare minimum of what crawls close to an apology, but it’s nothing more than discipline winning over personal stance, her motto clear. She thinks him unchangeable, black all the way through and that he belongs on the other side of her rifle, not by her leader’s side talking lowly over the excuse of the day. </p><p>“Let me borrow Ryder for a drink and it’ll be forgotten.” Reyes replies, shameless, unafraid to be painted evil as long as someone is willing to step into his shadow. Half of him asks for it because she won’t be able to say no and she will have herself to blame for picking the argument. Kadara sings around them, their moment in the spotlight evidence that the Tempest team at every powerful cornerstone in their journey won’t travel free without some immersion, some blending and he is willing to make his mark, be the smear on the white uniform proudly, openly daring her to try to wash him off. </p><p>She sees the corner she’s put herself in, squeezes her fist and says, “A drink then. For your troubles.” Enunciation indicating the singular she’s heard in his offering, she can’t quite escape her strong hold style of keeping her team close, a militaristic loyalty built into her companionship, making deals without thinking about feelings involved. </p><p>As she turns fully to Ryder, they make eye contact but all that is communicated stays between them and she moves around him back to their table to sit in his seat like she’s keeping it warm and definitely anticipating his return. With grace developed over years of sanding attitude with conflict, Cora accepts her shot glass with a half-smile that doesn’t prove awkward and looks deceivingly back in her element. Ryder watches her a long moment, torn, possibly weighing pursuing, and he draws a hand up to an old scar to press fingers in. Reyes waits, the only real victory is if Ryder thinks him worth staying. </p><p>“So you were here.” Ryder finally says, eyes muted, half expecting what he thinks is another much-deserved, well-timed escape, the drama hardly the excitement a man like Reyes Vidal humors. When Ryder is uncertain of what to say, he sometimes says nothing at all, and he says nothing about what he might have seen or caught a glimpse of, hardened at the jaw, holding in questions he likely thinks will bring unpleasant answers. </p><p>“Needed a drink.” Reyes has no intention of trying to deny the truth, even if he won’t let it punch him in the face but he won’t confess like a desperate sinner dying on the steps of the church. Ryder doesn’t ask why he vanished but he won’t and instead he rests his arms on the bar and says, “I get that.”</p><p>He shows hesitation, a reasonable worry. Ryder would mind his distance if asked. He’s wanted more than Reyes would like to admit to himself, and for the rebirthing of his inner heart, he fears that, fears the man inside himself who would pick fights that he isn’t getting paid for. He’s beginning to believe in their sunrise against his better judgment. </p><p>Ryder stares at him, existing with the crowd, another man allowed at the bar, nothing like the hyper focused attention that he sat beneath on the Nexus and becomes wistful at the man who can be himself in a world he has a hand in without his face plastered on every choice. When Reyes stares back, he reads something, something Reyes didn’t write there on purpose and Ryder’s smile grows and he breathes out a brief, slight laugh, “Liam was just talking about when we had time to send all those emails-“</p><p>An arm is tossed over his shoulder loose and friendly attached to Liam who is smiling, half drunk and all good energy. “Caught ya! You’re missing out, you know, we’re about to ‘redeem Gil’s fallen honor through the high stakes of a game of cards’ or whatever.” He glances and fully sees the reason for Ryder’s presence away from their table and says, “Vidal! Just the man to congratulate. You remember the days of sharing music and funny videos, right?”</p><p>Reyes never once returned the sentiments but he nods, moving his fingers around his empty glass and Liam beams, offering a hand, “You’ve been Collective, but you’ve never held out on giving me advice. Glad we could find the common ground.” Little does the man know that he’s been using the same contacts to gain leverage over the distance the Initiative has travelled, transferred their mapping skills and has been setting up diversions, illegally grabbing up resources and channels but Reyes puts his hand into the handshake anyway. </p><p>“You’re welcome to join us! Although be careful, Gil’s got his eyes peeled for any cheating.” He moves around their shoulders to snag Keema and himself a refresher, calling out to Umi casually. </p><p>Reyes slowly returns his eyes to Ryder, wondering if the man wants to return to his company but upon locking gazes, he sees the invitation will go unanswered if it so pleases him, those waters warmed to wade through comfortably, not icy in terrible memories. If this is how Icarus felt flying next to the sun, Reyes can understand the appeal of melting his wings. </p><p>“Let’s get you that drink that Cora so nicely agreed to pay for.”</p><p>Ryder narrows his eyes, close to rolling them, the humor hitting dry. “She’s just-“ He looks over the bottles, raises a finger to the other barttender to give himself a moment to try for better words, “Looking out for me.” He finishes, knowing how it sounds, and chances a look to the man by his side. </p><p>The neutrality he finds relieves him of the necessity of an objective, pleasant explanation. He relents the mediator role, Reyes and his armor giving him the space to speak more freely, “She’s being heavy handed about it though.” There’s an apology in there for him and an unrealized literalness to the statement. He orders a beer, but the eyes on them draw their attention. </p><p>“And still looking.”</p><p>He sighs, taking a large swallow, muttering into the glass, “Not even one second of privacy.” Thirsty, he doesn’t stop and Reyes follows the line of his throat, the healthy color of sun and a place he’s left kisses that just by remembering buzz heat through his blood. Intoxication makes a sweet blend of lowered defenses and leanings, the prize at the end of the evening privacy to indulge in and the setting is all the more in his favor, a low lit bar and a man who fits his every passion. The anger still burning becomes heavy, goes lower, and fits snuggly in desire and a measured frustration that has a thousand angles. </p><p>“The Pathfinder needs constant protection.” Reyes reminds him in mock courtesy and Ryder snorts, glassy eyed, “The Pathfinder needs-..” He pauses, almost letting it slip out but his eyes say all, open, reflecting Reyes back, pupils growing. Reyes thrums with gratification that he stayed, didn’t slip away at the first inconvenience. </p><p>He could do the honest thing, return Ryder to his team, allow Cora reason to believe him when he gives her his word and end the night at the one drink. </p><p> “Want to see a different side of our nightlife?” But not when Ryder is looking at him like that and not when he himself is this far gone. </p><p>Blooming with the idea of a retreat, life sparkles in amber. He checks, “Not planning on sleeping?” </p><p>A certain foreboding tickling of the nerves reminds Reyes of the spinning dizziness of recent nightmares and he replies, “There’s better ways to spend the time.” </p><p>Ryder follows through the crowd, close behind. Minutes pass, Liam returning to the table and Cora looks over to the bar, to the two glasses left empty and she startles up out of her chair, a gripping pit of fear unsettling her stomach.</p><p>“Woah, Cora!”</p><p>“What’s the matter?”</p><p>She didn’t agree to let him out of sight, or that they could simply leave the comfort of proximity and an ominous awareness that every detail of her wording is to be analyzed, conformed for the best benefit and that no matter how smitten Ryder seems with the man, he’s still the lord of spies who’s risen from the dust of fallen escapists and created an empire by dismantling the cruelest mutineer force in their galaxy, simultaneously pinning the Initiative down into contract. The right decision leaps out of her control, becoming only a blur of wrongs and that grey area bites into her mind so sharply she feels she has no choice but to hurry out of the bar and take the bluff back. Breathing hard, she sees only strangers, finding they are long gone and her one drink rule is only a game to the king of information brokers. The wall cracks under the punch she wishes she had landed and shivers the brick, telling her this is Kadara and she will have to be swifter in the lawless world of lone wolves and freedoms that call to young men too enticingly not to have hidden sharp rocks. </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>A bright and rejuvenated smile meets her on the bridge, like the tie dye of a morning all the best shades. Ryder is already dressed, in his uniform, smiling prettily, far too prettily for a man who stayed out all night in the crime infested streets. He has a coffee for her in her favorite mug as well as one for himself and Cora takes the offering even though she feels hallowed out, angry, startling so, and somehow wronged, like a promise unkept leaves a fresh wound. He’s recently out of the shower and she smells the distinct shampoo that makes her relax even though it is merely physical. If Ryder is getting a shower, they can all breathe as well. It’s been a personal truth since the establishment of Prodromos and she clings to its familiarity in this land of unfamiliar. </p><p>“Is everyone else still asleep?” He asks, no longer hiding behind the official title of his clothing, of the label ‘Pathfinder’ in order to cope with the smothering responsibility. Today he holds his shoulders straight, comfortable in the authority, and she sips her coffee, stomaching the detail that it is just the way she likes it, her soul purpling like a deep bruise because he knew who was going to be awake and thought of her through their turbulence. What did the Charlatan provide to free you of all that held even your soul down, Ryder? How can you still be our Ryder despite his hold on you?</p><p>“Liam’s up, getting a work out in and,” Her words choke up a bit, and she clears her throat, tries to meet him in a better mental space, “You know, Drack, he’s still-“ She waves her hand aimlessly in the concept of him being out and about, still enjoying a night tickled pink and orange now. </p><p>He half smiles and the way his eyes look on her, a familiar glow to them in the fragile, quiet morning dissolves her built up rant she had ready for him, curdling it like a fizzled out wick, blackened, hard, and worth nothing. She drinks, and he follows her lead, before he asks, “Did you play last night?”</p><p>“Yeah, you missed out on a good game. Suvi had a hand for the history books.”</p><p>A grin builds, “Did she happen upon it by luck?”</p><p>And does this finally bring a genuine smile to her face, “She didn’t even realize at first and had Gil literally melting out of his seat.” She wants to share it with him despite him not staying, just as much wanting to be a part of his good mood and cherish their peace. Torn by the situation, the chance for ease, sleeping in, drinking their fill and the infiltration she fears deeply, she wonders if she will be able to do anything for her leader if she cannot prove the same arresting charm that a handsome smuggler can somehow deliver with ease. But Ryder has come home, and they are establishing their mark and she trusts him, against all her doubts.  </p><p>Their talk over coffee brings back a sense of normalcy, many mornings spent just the same, their two mugs side by side, their uniforms only a rank apart. Picking up their hats from the airlock, laying down the cups, he hands her hers, “Are we ready for our morning meeting?” He is asking more than that of her, his loyal defender, his counterpart, his second in command and friend. </p><p>“As ready as you are.” She says and they glide the final piece of their uniform on. </p><p>In daylight pretty on their ship, climate friendly, an intertwined hand on a slow walk and not the pinching, desperate grip holding one from falling off the edge into the abyss, time strolls on. They can entertain a slow morning, and meetings that aren’t life and death, gripe about the stiffness of the uniform and curtly chuckle about who happened to remember to starch their jacket. Lexi calls up about a fresh pot of coffee and they can hear Drack stumble in to flop down to sleep a few hours and snore noisily. </p><p>Liam, toweling off sweat, looks them up and down, smirking, “Glad it wasn’t me who needed to be up kissing Addison’s ass this early.” His shirtless, tight torso gleams slightly, the low riding sweatpants a stark contrast to Ryder’s completely contained outfit and the man muses, “I’d like to get a run in.”</p><p>Liam cocks the smirk, flashing teeth and says, “I look good, I know.”</p><p>“You look like a guy who’s already forgotten he lost a hundred credits last night.”</p><p>“Oh c’mon! You weren’t even there! Who told you?” His eyes immediately find Cora who shrugs non committedly but her slight smile gives her away, “It all comes back around! I swear at least fifty of it is just being passed through everyone’s bank account.” He grips his towel, leaning into Ryder who watches carefully to make sure they don’t touch, “But if it makes it to Lexi’s, we’ll never see it again. It’ll go straight to therapeutic mats or teas-“</p><p>“I can hear you, Liam Kosta. Don’t make me put an hour of yoga on your schedule.”</p><p>“I might die of boredom! Can you live with that on your conscience?” He calls down to her, and then he remembers, “You still got enough coffee in that pot for me?” </p><p>Ryder chuckles, and Cora says, “You know, you could get that run in. The market is pretty sparce this early and we’ve got time till we should head out to the badlands again.”</p><p>He changes, puts his headphones in, the taper of his leg and strong muscle of his thigh clear in his training leggings which makes Peebee, still drowsy and in her tank top and shorts, whistle. </p><p>“Leave something for the imagination!”</p><p>“They’re aerodynamic.” He grins, the sweatshirt over top sitting nicely on his hips, “I’ll be back in an hour.” </p><p> “Be careful out there.” Cora reminds him as he trots down the ramp and he offers a wave over his shoulder, sleeve dropping. She sees something that catches her eye on his wrist, her brows coming together but he’s off, following a memorized path through the docks, largely unoccupied and whirring with machinery, the telltale sign of the necessity of people and their imminent arrivals to make certain everything continues to run smoothly. </p><p>Their ship is the same, Ryder’s prescription of painkillers sitting on their sink, his already logged in email on their main terminal and a blanket draped over a seat up in the video conference room. The secret stashes of vitamin jellies waiting in various places to entice searching hands and a hungry stomach, and a pretty flower preserved on the wall, all the makings of life and distinct personal presences that make the Tempest a home. Cora looks at her and Ryder’s mugs, empty except for the remains of coffee stains and decides to leave them, in the moment, next to the stack of datapads and the lamp curled for better lighting overtop an old relic of Angaran technology soon to be offered to Aya. </p><p>Sentimentality threatening to rear its head, she slips down into the med bay for a quiet talk. </p><p>When Ryder returns, sweating, breathing heavily and positively glowing, Gil is finally up, groggy, a little hungover and he gripes jokingly about who’s getting the next shower. </p><p>“You’ve had yours already.”</p><p>“I take short showers. You spend for<em>ever</em> getting your hair just right.”</p><p>“Just because you like a little bit of torture in the morning doesn’t mean you get to cut in line.”</p><p>“You’ve still got your coffee in hand, what’re you going to do? Shower with it?” </p><p>“Wai- hey! Ryder!” He doesn’t want to spill and only manages one jerked step forward before he knows it’s too late and he’s lost his turn. </p><p>Peebee knocks on the door to make sure Ryder is listening from his room, “Better hurry! Gil is smelling pretty ripe!”</p><p>“Alright, that’s it! Vetra hold my coffee!”</p><p>Kallo and Suvi stay with the Tempest, Drack still snoring away in his bed so only half the team makes it back out to the badlands, to their dome of protected supplies and tentative construction site. Liam has his music playing as he drives, Peebee in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dashboard. </p><p>“Good weather today.” She chirps, and Ryder, from the back seat calls up, “I know that tone. What have you got planned?”</p><p>She rolls down the window, puts out a hand and coasts with their speed, “Nice strong wind too.” Glancing back, she gives everyone a cheeky, glittering smile and Cora says, “Let me guess, it’s a secret.”</p><p>“Just until we get there.”</p><p>They stand in front of her large container, all waiting, and Gil gives it a good walk around, inspecting it, “First of all, when did you buy this?”</p><p>“Not important.”</p><p>Cora tries, “Did you use Pathfinder funds?”</p><p>“These questions are no fun.”</p><p>Liam’s smile is growing and he says, “It’s something we can use out here. Something that must not need electricity because-“ He sweeps his hand in indication to the wild scenery surrounding them and that lights up the Asari’s eyes. </p><p>“Bingo. You’ve got the right idea.” </p><p>She struts around the box, hands on her hips then kicks open the latch, using her shoe to toe it open and reveal the backpacks and helmets. </p><p>“That’s not what I think it is!” Liam beams, grabbing her hand to tug her into a half hug, laughing with excitement, “No way! Here? How’d you get these?”</p><p>“There isn’t anything someone isn’t making for the right amount of motivation.” Peebee says, and Ryder picks up one of the packed paragliders, impressed, turning it over and he grins, energy the same as the first time they defeated an Architect, and it breathes life into Cora who might’ve argued on any other planet that they don’t have time to mess around but instead, she offers, “That ridge up there, that’s a great place to take off.” They look at where her finger leads and Peebee, caught off guard but in the best way possible, smiles, “You’ve got my heart, Cora Harper.”</p><p>And everything around them glows. </p><p>The trip up is taken in the Nomad, everyone grabbing a bag and a helmet, the altitude giving the heavy, sharp sided grasses and plants the droplets of early morning dew not yet lost to the heat of day. Peebee stretches her arms, backpack on, helmet in hand and breathes, “Feel that! We’re going to be the first to look at our outpost from above.”</p><p>Wind roars up underneath them, catches hair not yet secure and it’s fresh, not sharp, terrifying, electric like it once was when all of Kadara promised pain, and the natural elements beckoned risk, rumbled with danger and sat in the back of the throat with a bad taste. They agree to their path, the figure eight to follow downward until the ground calls them back and with glittering honeyed eyes, Ryder tells Peebee she’s first. </p><p>Launch ready, she grabs her lines, and starts her descent, the wing breathing life and as it grows, she gets a good running speed before she slips gracefully into her seat, catching wind to carry her upward. They watch, in awe, with light on their shoulders and untroubled thoughts that claim the power in fragility, its beauty capturing the heart. Ryder goes last, following Cora, and she melts with a certain kind of love to see them all floating so prettily, gliding like feathers, flower petals on the air. They are both together and alone, braving the winds so they can touch the sky and over her shoulder she looks back to her Pathfinder, who grins widely back, vividly alert and not because he has to pull the universe up out of the fires of destruction and needs every fiber of his being to keep from being incinerated. </p><p>Flowingly they sail, higher than the hills, and the scurrying wildlife waking for food, higher than everything, and across the miles of untamed land, their mark draws the eye. Beside the gleaming, unreal blue of the sulfur lakes are lines, hard, carefully drawn, developed so to keep hope, the final outpost that calls them and surges through Cora’s breast like a wave. Against her face clean wind cups her cheeks like two cold palms, curls around her, welcoming her to Kadara, the world against all structure and eases her down to their claim gently, and she wipes a wind drawn tear away, chest still roaring.</p><p>Turning, her wing laying in the grasses and dirt, she watches Ryder follow, still coasting, and behind her, as the others unhook their lines, rush onto one another in their pride and giddiness, she waits, and thinks she can see the person she met when they still had the security of Alec Ryder holding their world securely in his hand. </p><p>Ryder removes the helmet, leaving his wing, and approaches, opening his arms, and suddenly Peebee is on her, Liam right next to the Asari and Ryder, then Gil and they’re all tightening their arms in a group hug that has blind joy rushing through Cora till she’s laughing so hard she sheds another tear. </p><p>Xxx</p><p>Macen Barro, the Turian Pathfinder, is dead. Protecting the arc, the empty shell of a mission mangled and the blown apart shreds of a purpose for that lost soul, his predecessor barely makes it back alive, the grief threatening to drown him with the world he fought to bring back from the corners of their universe that has sunk to the bottom. The last thing he has, the final message, pained, hurried words to not give up, take that next step, he shares, not because they all deserve to hear Macen talking to him and just him, but because Macen was the Pathfinder and a Pathfinder is the people’s lantern. He passes the torch, to the heartbroken lover, and says, ‘carry it, for me.’ And they all hear it, the love in the nickname, “Avi.” It says so many things, too many things for the overanalytical reporters and channels, and the agony in Avitus Rix’s expression hallows the celebration for another Pathfinder to light their way. All the long months of hope, the scattered remains of a trail to the arc take that fragile sensation and batter it senseless. </p><p>Only a malfunction halted the transfer of Macen’s SAM to Avitus, and he’s been gone for all those months, a flickering light on a dark ship, waiting for his lover to come pick him up so he can finally rest. </p><p>Avitus returns to the Nexus, having agreed to take on SAM, for the memories, for the final sensations he can preserve with a man he never got closure with, or a final goodbye on his end with a somber message from the Nexus officials, that for now, they have one Pathfinder, the human Pathfinder and Avitus Rix is entitled to a period of mourning.</p><p>If anyone can understand his position, it would be the one available Pathfinder, and Reyes wonders if Ryder sees himself in the Turian, their situations powerfully similar- men who had to give up a loved one to be given an unnecessarily heavy burden in history. </p><p>“You seem distracted.” Alejandro comments, jerky between his canines so he can use his hands to shuffle their deck, pulling Reyes’ attention out of his reports, and out of his headspace. </p><p>Aquila grins, tossing a stress toy against the low ceiling and catching it, “Still got girl problems? Some guys would kill to be in your place. Nothing beats a loyal woman.” </p><p>“Vidal’s choice in women don’t serve such a pretty picture.”</p><p>Reyes’ eyes move from one man to the other, but he is saved from having to craft a response with Radwan and Will ducking in the through the doorway from the narrow, dark hallway of a dozen doors that look just the same. Radwan lifts a case of beer as Will closes the door. </p><p>“For the ladies,” The sniper says, and then in his other hand he shows a bottle of vodka, “And for the losers.” </p><p>Low chuckling changes the subject and they settle into their private room down below the slums, tunnels altered, growing, expanding, inviting more and more lawless freedom as the grounds above that can be touched by sunlight breed flowers for the Initiative. This is the newest project of the Charlatan, the reality of a black market hungry, startling so, and needing black veins. From the old Oblivion den with Angara knowledge, the realm beneath unhinged its closed jaw and the belly of the beast awoke. Building another layer of society into the rock of Kadara’s heart, growing better arms and legs in correlation to the stability of the Initiative, the market begins phase two. </p><p>As the cards glide to each man’s awaiting spot, Alejandro jerks his chin to the beer and nods a thanks to Radwan when he’s passed one, “Did you guys hear about Lone Star’s fight from the other night?”</p><p>Will grins, cocked, leaning on the table, “Which fight? Tell me it was Brick against Vince Viper! Vince being able to dodge those punches, carefully getting in close until he tried to sleeper hold Brick! All that effort to get slammed for it.” He lets out a laugh, cracking a beer open, “Hilarious!”</p><p>Aquila points around his can, “Can’t sleeper hold a bear.”</p><p>Alejandro tosses in a card with credits in the middle of the table and the other men follow suit, “The real trick was Vince using the man’s own weight against him after getting punished for that failed hold. When he folded, he really folded. But did you see after? You know, the free fights to let new faces in.”</p><p>“Nah, I hardly ever watch those. Too many drunks with too little tact.” </p><p>Aquila drinks, breathing with satisfaction, “You got that right.”</p><p>“Well, there’s big talk about some new guy. Came in late. Defeated like four guys in a row.”</p><p>Will’s eyes light up and he glances to Radwan in his interest, “No way.”</p><p>“Yeah! Had a big load of credits bet on him right from the get go. Like,” Alejandro leans in, hand flat over his cards for a game not yet started, “Like someone knew he was about to obliterate the competition. I snagged a cut from the ring before the price shot up because, man, he had people talking..”</p><p>“Show us.” Reyes says, settled back in his chair. </p><p>Alejandro sets up his omni-tool to project onto the dark wall and they dim the lights to make sure the details of the shoddy, ever moving camera are at least decent. Radwan puts down their shot glasses as the video is chosen, Aquila snorting about some of the racier videos flashing by, and pours them all a shot. </p><p>“Here it is.” </p><p>The Lone Stars Fight Club ring and its distinct bright lights can be seen in the still shot, a smear of movement across the dirt of the floor. He presses play, holding his arm steady so the picture stays on the dreary, dark red wall. </p><p>There’s a man goading someone outside of the picture, giving a ‘come on’ motion with his hands, bare, unarmored and radiating blind confidence. He has his dirty, stretched tank tucked into his pants, boots dusty and a grin lopsided like it’s taken quite a few good punches. For a moment nothing happens, his bald head gleaming in the shine, his gnarled fingers and beer coated words bleeding into the noise. Finally the camera shifts and the other fighter steps into view. All black, a dark jacket and a helmet with a dark visor to mask his face. He steps to the side, listening to the taunts and then propels himself forward without warning. </p><p>He ducks the first bear hug swing of the man’s thick arms, sliding in the dirt by a knee to climb up the man’s hips easy, use the open elbow to rotate his weight forward and flip him hard onto his back. The captured arm goes taut, caught by the man’s hands and the bald headed fighter snarls, teeth gritting with his neck and head in between two knees. Tighter, tighter, the man begins to flush and Will whispers, impressed, “Now that’s a hold.”</p><p>When the other arm starts to flail, the man in black releases, rolls back fluidly to stand, watching the man cough and hack, collecting himself with the grace of a half drowned animal. When he has enough wit to glare, fumbling up to his feet, the fighter in black mocks him with a ‘come on’ by one hand. </p><p>He roars, hands fisted to throw wild hits that are palmed up, and out, so a right hook can come in smooth and without defenses to block it, rippling flesh and clacking a jaw that promises the loss of teeth. The man spins, half out of his brain, and collapses on himself in a heap of muscles and a bit of blood out of the mouth. </p><p>Cheering erupts loosely from the crowd, the swift defeat keeping people in their seats despite the official fights being over for the night. The bar flashes its lights for a break so people can get another drink as several staff come in from the doors to collect the unconscious loser, roll him with lackluster care and welcome another round of betting. </p><p>The man in black steps around the ring, silent, waiting, and Aquila confirms, “You said he downed four guys?”</p><p>“Easily.”</p><p>The next fighter steps into the ring, a long dark ponytail low on his head and sharp angled eyebrows thick over dark eyes. Smaller in stature, he promises speed, and he calls over the noise, “Not going to take that helmet off?”</p><p>The fighter in black doesn’t respond, slowing to a stop. </p><p>“Don’t want anyone to know who you are?” Darkness settles beneath those eyes, a challenge, and the man rolls his neck and shoulders, loosening up, “You can’t be that important.”</p><p>They circle each other, and Alejandro smirks, tossing his beer back and crushing the can in his fist. The first left jab is experimental, sliding off the man in black’s protective arm, immediately proceeded by a right kick that chases a spin so the foot never connects. The man in black uses that spin for momentum for his own kick and coming off the ground with his far leg, he slams his boot into the man’s jaw, snapping his head back and jolting him. He falls back a few steps, caught off guard, but quickly collects himself lest that killer right hook knock him completely out. He jerks, simply out of instinct, and throws a knee up to give himself some room but it only provides the man in black a means to get in close, grab that knee and headbutt him with brain rattling force. </p><p>He folds, dizzy, out of sorts and with ease the man in black steps away, gives him some room, to see whether he’ll stand or give up. He manages to his feet, wipes the blood from his lips and sneers. The punches come in fast, only the controlled turn of a head or well placed arm to block keeping knuckles from bruising flesh. </p><p>“Come on, what’s he waiting for.” Aquila murmurs into his can, staring hard, trying to predict the next move. </p><p>Suddenly dropping low, the man in black flips forward, bringing his foot around for another kick that smashes blood out of the man’s nose and propels him down into the dirt. Using his own arm to catch and lessen the fall, the winner glides backwards, once again rolling himself to his feet and he looks into the crowd distinctly as noise rumbles through the entire building. </p><p>“Damn, did that guy even land one good hit?” Will half laughs in the lull, grinning, and Alejandro pulls free another beer, “He’s just warming up. You’ll really see him in action at this next one.” </p><p>A tall, lithe man saunters into the ring, hair cropped short, mask covering the bottom of his face and eyes cold. His fingerless gloves have knuckles made of low spikes, his belt similar in design. </p><p>“I know that guy.” Radwan says lowly, arms folded over his chest, “He used to be a guard in the Outcast.”</p><p>“Explains the mask then.”</p><p>The man in black squeezes his hand, gripping his knuckles tight, and then tests his shoulder, swooping it back and forth. They’ve already pulled the last fighter out of the ring but a splatter of blood still remains, half coated in dirt. </p><p>“They’re calling him the Reaper.” Alejandro says, eyes glued on the two fighters staring at each other, watching the Reaper give himself a running start for a leap upward, “For how he drops the competition.” And Reyes’ entire body floods with heat, startling every drop of blood to a boil in a powerful wave that calls for his shot so he throws it back, letting it fill him with raw energy. The men around whistle, surprised by his sudden movement but follow suit, inspired. </p><p>That Ryder would be like him, given a name that holds some form of truth, something inelegant, unrefined and yet clinging to some details that are inevitably seen by the third party’s eye, an acknowledgment of the soul beneath the choices, even if it’s labeled with a piercing lack of concern for how it makes the person feel feeds him. Nothing like the glossy and respected title of Pathfinder, something completely Ryder’s and meant for Kadara. </p><p>
  <em>The Reaper.</em>
</p><p>He brings a knee into the ex-guard’s chin. It’s a light hit, but the speed is what matters, the man in black already leaning back, to draw that leg up and straighten it in a kick to the mouth. When the ex-guard swings down to hit, he makes him chase, dropping to one strong arm and just when the man thinks he’ll land a hit on that black helmet, he brings his leg down from overtop and slams him out of his focus. </p><p>All he needs is a second, and as he pushes himself back to his feet, he ducks a swing, blocks another with both arms, and curls a fist tight to beat ribs in an unprotected corner on the left. Swift hits, hard to count, merciless, and he props himself on a back leg, falling out of range for an upper cut but giving himself the room to swing around defenses and knock the man right in the eye with his fist. </p><p>“Damn!” Aquila whistles, and they all watch with bated breath the Reaper climb over top, delivering one hard punch after another, slamming the ex-guard out of the fight without hesitation. When hands finally stop providing minimal defense, he slows, and stands up on strong knees. There’s breathing, controlled, sweeping up through his shoulders but almost immediately it’s masked, and he’s back to the expressionless stalking silence that has the crowd barking out to bait him into revealing any detail about himself. </p><p>“Give a battle cry!”</p><p>“Show us your damn face! So what, he can throw a few good punches, I want to see him!” </p><p>Reyes watches, waiting for what he knows what happens next, the Reaper turning his head to a certain angle to look up into the crowd. He knows who the fighter’s looking at, who he’s checking in with because he was sitting in that very seat. </p><p>Vodka heat buzzing to life that night, he pours another shot, closes his eyes briefly as the next fighter saunters into the ring and begins first to talk up the crowd. Throwing it back, he lives in the hot hands that grabbed him once they were out of sight in a new, small, rented room close to Lone Star after taking their earned cut of bets won. </p><p>
  <em>”Faster-“ Ryder gasps, breathing hard, tossing the helmet off into the corner of the room as he shoves Reyes’ hand down into his pants, wrestling his arms out of his jacket, buckling nicely into the complying squeeze the palm he asked for presses against his hardening bulge. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Reyes sees the high that’s still got Ryder’s eyes blown out, and the flush on his cheeks indicating blood racing beneath the surface. He leads him backwards, moving in to kiss a hungry mouth, the dull neon lights, violets, magentas, glowing through the window of their second floor scattered in the droplets of precipitation from the pipes that make up the streets’ ceiling. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Knuckles gone purple and red, overlayed with fresh cuts pull Reyes in with surprising strength, and push off the upper layers of his leather, kisses on his jaw, kisses going hard, ready to leave marks. When he’s stripped to his bodysuit underneath, Ryder’s down on his knees unzipping his pants and freeing him, knowing well they’re both buzzing with arousal, blood burning with victory made from violence wanted. He licks up the side, tongue smooth all the way to the head, those bruised fingers curling around the base. With any other person, the authority of having a lover on their knees would have instilled its own degree of necessary control, but Ryder swallows him, once, twice, earns a nice hum of approval and looks up with fiendish, proud eyes that level the playing field. They are equals, finding solace in each other, the same kind of scorching fire that can’t overpower the other. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Drawing one of those hands up from the hold on his hip, Reyes inspects the bruises, the overlay of fresh cuts and kisses one, the flinch he receives deep, and warm. He slides his reach back, grabs an item they both know from a back pocket and snaps it in place over one of Ryder’s wrists. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He pulls back, off his erection, breath hot and tingling against the sensitive head and looks to the handcuff, giving it a long glassy look before he looks up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You kept these?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You think I would leave behind a token of the time I saved the Pathfinder’s life?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryder kisses him intimately, knowing he will be given good reaction and says, amused, “Element of surprise, nice touch.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He cups the man’s chin, “Just like when you took out that last competitor with that undercut.” It rushes a fresh wave of stimulation, Ryder warming under the acknowledgment that ties nothing like morality or necessary evils to his actions. Brutality praised, power appreciated, fear of who he is, the monster beneath the helmet, isn’t here in this room nor in Reyes who would only insist the grey area is a refuge and Ryder should embrace it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Arms locked together, tucked beneath him, Ryder buries his face into the cover of the bed, all physical, no longer tortured by thoughts, guilts, free just like he was in the ring and Reyes presses deep inside him, curling toes and making his lover gasp hotly. He was unleashed and now being leashed, the destructive force of his own power out of his hands, that freedom is intoxicating like wine, sweet as honey. Reyes kisses the old bullet scar, acknowledges him as human, when he’s been the super soldier out to the world and in the ring, and pulls him back into himself, each sensation at a time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Harder, more-“ He breathes, shoulders tense, these dark needs something he thought completely his own terrifying burden no other person could handle. Reyes bathes in their positions, his Pathfinder, his fighter, his lover, at one point grabbing for the basic necessities, hoping not to starve and now a man of many indulgences and the earned safe haven of everything once thought sent to destroy him. He owns this need, and holds down hands that can and have killed men. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Reyes..!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His name, his real name and a demanded raw, ruthless carnality that he’s given no one in Andromeda until Ryder, he spends the night providing and being provided the passion and orgasms that tell him he’s significant and wanted and this dark room in the feral streets of the depths of the monster that is Kadara is everything they’ve both needed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryder laying in the bed, with the window open, smoking out into the dim street, Reyes lets manufactured air sweep into a hot room, unworried about who will see. They are another couple of faceless consumers, the liberty vital to Ryder’s mental health and the deeply personal recognition given in return soothes the carnivorous wound closed up in Reyes Vidal’s back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Gimme one.” Ryder says, hand reaching out, chest bare, wrists rubbed raw and eyes satisfied. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Reyes turns, and offers the box, earning a chuckle, “C’mere. My hips are still out of the game.” So he walks closer, slipping one into waiting fingers and lights it, “You’re welcome.” Vague to imply either the cigarette or the shot hips. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryder laughs from behind the cigarette, wet light glowing on his cheekbones and dipping into his bare muscles-</em>
</p><p>“Holy shit!” Will jumps up, fists clenched, “How the fuck?” And Reyes slowly opens his eyes from his mind. </p><p>The Reaper has the next fighter up by the throat, lifting him, having moved in close with only a few exact steps and throws him with the strength of a super soldier. He follows, walking as the man tries to unjumble his racing thoughts, scrambling off the ground with a heavy cough. </p><p>He punches, swinging through, only missing because the other fighter spins off the wall and it cracks beneath the force. The man grabs him around the chest, crying out when a foot slams into his kneecap and he releases to gain momentum by a back foot to propel a fist forward. The Reaper ducks it and comes in close, the upper cut catching him fully, bringing him again off his feet, but this time it throws him out cold into the dust. The video cuts with the Reaper turning toward the camera, and Aquila slams his empty can down on the table. </p><p>“I call it. That guy’ll be back. There’s no way he didn’t get a good cut of credits from just those sets of fights alone.”</p><p>Shutting down his omni-tool, Alejandro pats his cards, “Oh yeah, and there’s a race to figure out who he is. It’s bringing in channels just to wait for his next fight so people can buy tickets.”</p><p>“We’ve gotta go. I gotta see that in person.” Will says, nudging Radwan who glances to Reyes, and says, “Sure.” </p><p>“Are we ready for a game?” Aquila settles in, elbows on the table, lifting his cards by the corner for a glance. “I’ve got a good feeling about my hand.”</p><p>“First to fold pays for the room fee.” Reyes says low and all the men groan, some laughing others protesting and yet all of them enjoying the idea of a challenge. Everything melds into a dim night underneath the upper world, drink and cards and burning thoughts to be kept behind a poker face and to the left side of the chest. </p><p>Days pass, the outpost established enough that they are ready to start finalizing details in order to bring people down for duty and a meeting is agreed upon. It rings up the channels until official word has it but the Collective keeps a tight grip on the details, Reyes learning his lesson with spineless creatures like Spender. </p><p>It is similar to a time when Cora and Ryder came to the base under Sloane’s reign, negotiations only a front for distraction and now the distraction is within the negotiations as Cora sits at the table with Keema and Crux while Reyes and Ryder stand apart enjoying a conversation meant only for two. She glides her hat off, and Crux says, “The Collective welcomes the Initiative.”</p><p>Cora can barely take her eyes off her leader as he flashes a wondrously cheeky smile, rolling his eyes and shows that youth she’s barely registered on his face since before she knew him and his father had passed which stings her deeply, remembering how she had seen it in the badlands, thought it precious and yet Reyes Vidal calls it forth so easily. </p><p>“Thank you.” She says belatedly, clearing her throat and notices Keema’s keen eyes on her so she forces herself not to show her thoughts on her sleeve. Do they all know, she wonders as she gives Crux a quick examination but she’s reading her datapad and appears focused on her job and nothing else. </p><p>Ryder sits, and Reyes finds his seat across from him. </p><p>“Has the Collective already decided who they would like to propose for the outpost’s leadership?” Ryder asks, hat off on the table. </p><p>“We have our first pick.” Crux says, turning the datapad around for a picture of a man, older, with greying hair and hardened skin. A man with a mineral wise background and years spent harvesting rock, Christmas Tate. Ryder looks into his details, a person still in stasis, and while skilled in his area of expertise, unexceptional in rank and hardly a name known outside of his field. When they are finished inspecting, Crux slips her hair behind her ear and says, “The process of collecting and mining for soil will be right up his alley. He has a team, several scientists who analyzed his gathered specimen back in the Milky Way and we think it would be best for the consistency to be maintained here on Kadara as well. We want the quickest results for Nexus food sources.”</p><p>Ryder glances to Cora and her breast swells to know they are still the established first base and she says, “He’s had military experience but he’s retired. There shouldn’t be any issue other than the basis of security.” </p><p>“The Collective promises Ditaeon every measure of protection it can offer.” Reyes says and Keema nods, agreeable, the pretty face to the alluring, cunning man with dark eyes, a fluid system of performances and mirages. </p><p>“The promise is appreciated, but we’ll have to establish our own defenses. I’m sure you can understand that, considering where the outpost is positioned in the badlands.” Cora replies curtly, glancing between the two, the Angara and the man, one in uniform, one not, one who stands in the light, and one who works through the shadow. </p><p>“Of course, nothing less would be expected.” The Charlatan says, the underlying tone playful, keenly aware and she might have flushed at the chance she did not hold her standards so strongly to her heart. If he didn’t have the upper hand, she wouldn’t even breathe the idea of a truce to a man created by manipulations but she has no choice, they were destined to sit here when they met the Charlatan, the hand who can turn the tables and molds the veins under Kadara’s skin. </p><p>“Kadara Port will be glad to enjoy the benefits of the outpost and ultimately the Nexus.” </p><p>“Now that we have agreed Christmas Tate to be an appropriate mayor, the manner of communication and trade between the Port and the outpost should be discussed.”</p><p>“Trade?” Cora echoes, blindsided and Reyes says, “You didn’t think we wouldn’t want an official channel, did you?” </p><p>“You’re the reason the black market has grown so large recently!” Her heart sinks but not the volume of her words, “You steal from the Nexus and sell it back tenfold. How could we openly agree to opening an ‘official channel’ just to feed the black market? You’re tying us down into this blackmail permanently!” That trench in her body thought to have a limit plummets further, pulling her insides down and down, until she thinks she might go heartless. </p><p>“Considering who you house on your ship and what they do in their free time, it’s surprising you’re so against what we do.” </p><p>This time Cora does flush and she tears her gaze over to Ryder who is watching, demanding he do something, not allow Kadara to continue to bully them into all their deals, and fall into the obvious trap. The safe haven she had created in her mind where they could separate themselves from the Port is being swallowed up into darkness, curling tight in her throat. The feeling mirrors the beginnings of despair. He accepts her tap out and says, “We can agree to trade, as long as there are regulations in place. Food, supplies, water, we want all hospitable worlds to have access to these. But we won’t officiate trade including weapons or chemicals. For the sake of the public’s peace of mind.”</p><p>Reyes taps his finger on the table, one, twice, thrice and says, “Deal, Pathfinder.” </p><p>But Cora doesn’t think she’ll be able to stomach even one more shock. She feels slightly numb throughout the rest of the meeting, thankful for its finish, the blueprints provided and fees handled for a number of hired helpers merely to do the rest of the physical labor so they can begin to move people their way. </p><p>Crux shows her to the bathroom, a moment of solidarity, reprieve as they separate. She stares at herself in the mirror, the person she’s trusted more than anyone staring back and reminding her she can handle anything. They are the Pathfinder team, the heroes to the universe, imperfect but the good intention is there. Her reflection narrows her eyes. </p><p>Is intention enough? She’s beginning to doubt, that she can overpower the ego of men who don’t cling to moral righteousness but answer to their greed, their desires and their passions, no matter how dark and she breathes out, sickness holding her stomach, shoulders taut. Does she believe some men inherently evil or can she trust the person from the wrong side of life even against her instincts? To convince herself she can’t be the answer to every problem takes a long quiet moment in private memories to a mentor with calloused hands and a gravelly voice full of acquired wisdoms. Your best means something, Cora Harper, but you’ve got to find beauty somewhere, to counter everything that scares you, tries to tell you the world is ugly. She finds security in words she’ll never let go of, that save her and tries to build a good soldier back up. Doing the best she can means something. That’s why she grows roses.</p><p>Cigarette smoke flutters to her senses, a scent she knows, doesn’t particularly like but is vividly aware is Ryder’s when he needs a moment, a necessary break. So they are the same. She wipes her hands, presses the handkerchief back into place in her pocket and walks away from the restrooms toward the open door, the entryway to a balcony that used to be kept closed, dark, sealed away to Sloane’s disgust with fresh air and the large promises of the sky. </p><p>She slows, ready to step out when she hears the voices. </p><p>“You know you can’t stop what sells from trickling its way through.”</p><p>“I know. But I have to say it, don’t I? It’s my job to warn you that there are rules.”</p><p>Reyes hums, and smokes disperses against Cora’s shoulders, the wind hitting just right to pull it through the door, “You’re right. There’s this wonderful system in place that if a mutineer breaks those rules, they send the Pathfinder to correct them.”</p><p>“You won’t like me coming to arrest you.”</p><p>“Only one of us wears handcuffs here on Kadara.”</p><p>Cora stiffens, hardens. </p><p>“I’m not planning on letting that change anytime soon.” Amusement curls in the Charlatan’s voice and suddenly the marks on Ryder’s wrists makes sense, have a name to curse them with.  </p><p>Her discipline snaps, her pistol finding her palm before she thinks twice. The light on their faces, the cigarette in fingers, the casual intimacy that seems so out of place in a conversation about betrayal and manipulation guts her stomach when Ryder turns over his shoulder to the barrel aimed at Reyes’ face and looks like he’s been slapped. </p><p>“You sneaky bastard.” She says harshly, only stopped by Ryder quickly stepping into its path with reflex as fast as a whip. She glares at him, half sure she can get the Charlatan over his shoulder if she aims right and he snaps, the situation calling for a voice only used in crisis, “What the hell are you thinking? Since when do you pull guns on allies?” It dawns on him and his brow lowers, “So you did throw a punch in the bar.” </p><p>“I don’t consider this imposter an ally. And since when do you defend criminals like they’re one of us?” Her heart is in her throat, pounding in her ears with the above noises of ships flying low vibrating into their conversation. They tightrope the situation and even at the chance of falling the distance, Ryder doesn’t move. </p><p>She can tell she’s stabbed him with her words, the crease at his brow deepening, “We’re here settling an outpost and trade <em>because</em> of him. This would have never happened under Sloane’s reign and you’re putting all our hard work at risk. Lower that gun.”</p><p>She bristles, tired of playing pretend, worn thin by the idea that they’ll never be free of Kadara even after they leave, hating those eyes that stare at her over Ryder’s shoulder, guarded by her Pathfinder’s heart, “We’re here offering you and the Nexus up on a golden platter and you think I should be polite about it? He has you around his little finger and you’re glad about it!”</p><p>“This isn’t about me! Lower that gun!”</p><p>“You’re half right. It’s always been about what he can get from you!” She declares, turning her attention to the man who’s paraded his nicotine existence and conveniently stayed hushed about the cancer and commands, “Tell me I’m wrong. Let’s put it all out in the open.” </p><p>Reyes stares at them over his cigarette, the somewhat out of place optimistic glance back from Ryder informing him if he wants to properly acknowledge feelings over monetary benefit and settle uncertainty, Cora is ironically giving it to him and willing to be witness. Wind arches over the base, wisping along the railings like a gentle wail, only the bleeding orange of the sky listening. <em>She</em> thinks it is his nature for him to fail, trusting that he will deliver a fatal blow to the relationship, choose safety over exposing himself but she doesn’t realize what he’s come willing to sacrifice, what wounds he carries for the Pathfinder. She knows him to be selfish, even tactfully cruel but she doesn’t know he would give even life away for her leader. </p><p>Looking slow between the two, he says nothing, and Cora takes it in stride, “Whatever’s going on between you two doesn’t mean it isn’t all just a show to get his foot in the door. I’m tired of pretending what we’ve sacrificed to put people in good homes and jobs is at all similar to a man using lies and spying in order to take power. After we give him one step, he looks for his chance at the next two. This outpost isn’t any different and I’ll be damned if I’m the only one seeing that.” </p><p>The timing begins to collapse Ryder’s argument and he swallows hard in the silence. If he could say the words, use his tongue for honesty, step into a good place to get hurt where Ryder is, then he might challenge Cora’s suspicions of his entire person and give the Pathfinder a much-needed pardon in his lashings for his affections toward someone who hasn’t earned their trusts. But he’s never been so lucky to be granted the decency of becoming a man allowed a confession that wasn’t bought and old defenses are not so easily torn down. She is just as right to pull the gun on the man flying too close to the sun. </p><p>“When has he ever said different? I’m not going to let him take advantage of you, Ryder. First, it’s his personal rivals, then Sloane, now he’s making sure he has his claim on the outpost. He’s using you.”</p><p>Ryder begs him with his eyes to say something, anything, prove their private conversations able to withstand the gaze of an outsider, that they can weather being vulnerable even just a fraction more than what he’s used to. That he’s not just been fed sweet nothings for the benefit of his status. The betrayals begin to stand out, harshen in his incriminating silence and a foolishness for believing the promises said in the company of two that won’t be said elsewhere makes Ryder desperate.  </p><p>“Please lower the gun, Cora.”</p><p>Cora breathes then holsters it with a clear warning in her stare. “We’re leaving. Negotiations are over. After we send the information onto the Nexus, the Collective needs to hand over Spender’s scrambler. I don’t expect any further calls to the Pathfinder’s quarters.” </p><p>She moves her shoulder so Ryder can return to her side and still he hesitates, still he gives the doomed man a chance for redemption.</p><p>“Reyes.” He says, and his voice wavers, but it does no good. Self preservation holds strong, walls thick, right now a prison keeping things in instead of out, and all he is returned with is silence, a protective and cold silence. Breaking eye contact, the final blow is delivered, and he avoids looking at the expression he knows would haunt him, the shattering of a fragile hope for his own soul. The Pathfinder storms back inside off the tall balcony, Cora’s hand still on her holstered pistol in a clear message. She doesn’t look back but neither does Ryder, hiding beneath his cap, pulling it down low and Reyes hears them leave, going down to the ground level. </p><p>Ash sprinkles down his fingers and belatedly Reyes taps it on the metal railing in slow reflex, breath caught along the tender flesh of the wound on his back. It doesn’t come, holding tight, like his lungs refuse to let go, and briefly his mind flashes to the suffocating replay of the repetitive dreams where his past disloyalties return his poor confidence. Pressing his forehead into his hand, leaning on the metal, a pain settles behind his eyes, and reminds him he hasn’t slept, the adrenaline running low with the danger gone, leaving a cold shell of muscles and bones. Everything floods, pooling at his feet, turning nerves sensitive but all the important parts of his body feel turned off, muted. </p><p>Messages beckon his attention, tell him he doesn’t have to think about all the words left caged inside if he doesn’t want to and so he opens his omni-tool, alleviated at the deepest most personal parts of himself that he knows he will survive what he thought at one point would be easy, the manipulations too big not to be a third party in their relationship even if it is becoming a wound far more critical than he believed possible. He won’t fall to this, not something he expected to eventually happen. </p><p>But he can’t read, the words blurring, and he wipes his face, unsettled, hurt in those depths that promise it’s relief, it’s not heartache, his cigarette gone cold, a sad depleted shell of its former burning glory. The only icy flash of real relief is the bleeding, rupturing pain for the reassurance that Ryder was genuine in his affection, a back red and bleeding from the criticism for trusting an outlaw and he finally releases the breath, like his body had been holding him hostage in his denial that that mattered less than grabbing up the next wave of resources. Someone would endure even Reyes’ own faults for him. </p><p>At last, he’s earned the scar he thought would bring him pride, the pretty hero never able to forget the man with too many names from the acidic land of the thrown aways but he didn’t account for it being a double-edged sword. Up on the balcony, above the city that holds deeply embedded secrets just like its master, he aches, the bittersweet pain of something brought to life again by affection started months ago and the subsequent ruin of it by his own habits learned to protect himself from the very thing that promised salvation.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. The Outpost: Sunset</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lessons are sometimes only learned the hard way.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The outpost shines with fresh metal not yet pricked and stained by Kadara’s rain, mostly built, a growing object to recognize the change in their world. Reyes watches it from Draullir, from the cliff up in the mountainside with a view that reaches just like the presence that lives inside, far and wide. It invites reflection, the place where the Pathfinder first looked upon the Charlatan and offered respect, even grief, and said the spymaster, the con master’s life mattered and he wanted to protect it. Reyes looks into the tiny movements, builders, supply trucks, and sees the Nomad parked with the rest of the vehicles. This place where Ryder discovered an identity crafted by lies and offered understanding comforts the sting so here Reyes waits, watching but he can’t tell Ryder apart from the other small forms moving and he finally returns to business, accepting he at least knows where the man is and won’t watch the Tempest fly off this world of ashy dirt and blood stains without some preparation of the heart. They will finish the outpost as promised.  </p><p>Batus’ space team on H-047c has discovered a base, an old mine still functional buried safely in the pocketed depths and machinery tells of sweet resource if they can get it turned on again. An Angaran squad will be sent to Krex, the leader, in order to, hopefully, expedite the process. Meriweather has returned to space, grown bored with looking for clues of the Charlatan’s identity, business slow on the planet getting special attention from the Nexus. Whether she returns, or finds amusement in space will be left to the chaotic path of her own choosing. </p><p>Work consumes, because nothing else appeals, a drink had for the image, a seat in the audience because he’s watching the gambling scene’s development in the undergrounds, and solitude for processing. </p><p>Despite his sea of red growing, the Collective becoming a place to maintain protest against the Initiative’s failings but also earn a respectable defense and a check, Reyes doesn’t have the use for the blending of a uniform. Not while he maintains consistency in an existence that is expected of him. The leather, muted browns and greys, keep eyes off him, and provide the coverage of being self-seeking, otherwise uninterested in larger politics and thus harmless in all the way’s he’s not. It’s easy, numbing to be what he’s expected to be. </p><p>Credits, alcohol, supplies, a wall of the club, trailing lines of dark shops, the arm’s length distance he knows well, it all wanes like a moon, thin, tasteless but familiar. Dr. Nakamoto calls for Reyes to come back, to see how his wound is healing but he ignores the messages and the questions about Lachlan. It’s everything they’ve known, the loss of life, the price paid for a choice, but to men like Ryota, her chosen brutality and subsequent death can only lead to circular grief. In his nice office that welcomes natural light, the step out of the grim, cold container in the slums, he’ll find redemption for past mistakes, opportunity to unshackle the last fraying Oblivion ropes and make use of his intelligence. Seeing the world he needs to be brighter, lighter, easier on the shoulders is just the same no matter how nice the tools get, it wouldn’t do him any good. Their final memory, a cup of coffee, a gentle moment that looked like friendship, Reyes can at least leave him that. </p><p>Observation fills in the hours left awake, time to reflect on who they all are, who they might want to be, who they have to be. He takes on personal missions to trail his own people, understand where the lines are drawn, where he exists with them, and the means to loyalty, the defining trails of devotion. </p><p>Vince, the thread into their security detail, the man receiving tips about the badlands and running scout missions out to predict the forming ex-Outcast group’s movement, has been a dot on Reyes’ radar since his promotion, and his frequenting underground to the ring as Vince Viper. </p><p>Vince smirks, black eye purpled and he smacks the table, on edge, looking across the room for something to catch his attention in the club. His scouts drink, one with their goggles pulled up into their messy hair and the other hunched around his glass as if someone might try to take it. </p><p>“Wouldn’t even been a question to sell out the Collective if I thought the credits were there.” He chuckles, chewing a piece of gum, tapping a random beat out on the edge of the metal, “But then the Charlatan opened up that next level shit, you been?”</p><p>His scout guarding his beer grins, “You talking about the old Oblivion den doorway?”</p><p>The other massages the bridge of his nose, “What the fuck’s that?”</p><p>“Doorway down into the actual black market. Nothing like the pretty cleaned up act they got going on now upstairs. That’s all for the Initiative dogs.”</p><p>“Yeah, no fucking rules down there. And Lone Star! Got my shit rocked the other night, but I’m basically a celebrity. Made a killing.” Vince massages his jaw, an ache likely still present, “Made a killing and I <em>lost</em>!” They all laugh, dark amusement alive in the noise, and he swishes his drink, moving the ice around, “So I guess I’ll stick around with the Collective, make sure the big guy upstairs thinks I’m useful.”</p><p>“Psh, you think he’s listening? He’s probably not even real.”</p><p>Vince’s eyes go serious, harsh, all white icy blue and he says sharply, “He’s fucking real.”</p><p>“Woah man.” Goggles says low, and Vince whips around to him, “I know he’s real. And he’s got a hand in every pocket on this goddamn planet. I saw it, a glimpse of him, the other night after my fight ended with Brick. There was a new guy, different than all the halfwits and drunk ass wipes who think they can throw a punch. And he had the biggest odds in line for him. That isn’t a coincidence.” He drinks, slamming the glass down, “There aren’t any coincidences when it comes to the Charlatan. If I get on his good side, I might get numbers like that. So you guys better do your jobs right.”</p><p>Money and fame, Reyes can rely on those motivations, but can’t call them loyalty. He slips away, Crux inviting him up to meet one last time before the mayor and the first wave of settlers arrive for the outpost. She’s stayed true to the Charlatan, even after his identity became known but he thinks it’s a like-minded direction keeping them in line. She is devoted to their color, wearing red with pride. He could’ve been anyone, from anywhere, and her neutrality to his personal image proves she doesn’t see him as the heart of the Collective, only a necessary component for its survival, a respected pillar still necessary to stand. </p><p>Lynx is spread out in the sitting area of Crux’s office, arms thrown over the back of the couch and glower stormy. When Reyes enters the office, they make eye contact and she clicks her tongue audibly and rises up out of her relaxed position. </p><p>They all consider each other, Crux sitting at her desk, Reyes slowly finding the seat positioned in front of her and Lynx from the couch. </p><p>“Sloane Kelly’s body is ready for transport.” Lynx finally says, “Are we offering her up to the Initiative?”</p><p>Crux flicks her finger down her datapad, “I believe the ceremony should be held here. It would give the Loyalists less reason for hostility toward the Nexus. We officiate the outpost, bury Sloane Kelly, hand over the scrambler and the Initiative will have no choice but to see us as an ally.”</p><p>“Sure, until they think they can overpower us.” Lynx sneers, looking out over her comrade’s shoulder to their city.</p><p>“Then their outpost will be the perfect reason to stand down.” Reyes says, and she regards him like he’s the devil on the shoulder, the concealed knife, the whisper to do evil. He only stares back, daring her to think him wrong when they’ve created their empire on who can shoot faster. </p><p>He folds his ankle over a knee and offers, “We won’t need to do anything threatening to the outpost. The Loyalists are planning an attack when they believe the freshly populated outpost is at its most vulnerable and that would be at the departure of the Pathfinder. You send your best units, Batus gets his security detail involved and we’ll have our next favor in line.”</p><p>“Always a step ahead.” She mocks bitingly but he can see the smoothing at her brow, the expertly concealed ease to hear a plan is in place, a net for their souls where guarantees aren’t so accidental. She doesn’t have an ounce of loyalty to him, just to his abilities which she constantly searches for bad motivations but he knows she’s consistent, and follows appropriate orders. She has dedication but not to Reyes Vidal. </p><p>“For today’s grand opening, Keema will be at the forefront to shake hands with the Pathfinder and welcome the new mayor. She presents the least amount of danger to the Initiative who will have their own cameras and media outlets. This way, the Resistance can trust we recognize her position as head of the Collective.” Crux finally looks up, and turns her attention fully to Reyes, “Why don’t you get in uniform? It will be easier to grant you access to today’s ceremony if you look the part.”</p><p>“My front is an independent smuggler who sometimes works with the Collective. I have no need for a uniform.” Underneath he thinks, I don’t have any intention of going. </p><p>“Why are you so against wearing your own colors?” Lynx demands, narrowing her eyes on him, “Is the escape route so necessary this far in?” When he doesn’t answer she stands and says, “Your name, your face, even your methods, you keep everything hidden but this is no longer an ‘every man for himself’ band of spies hiding from a dictator. You expect us to put our lives on the line for your rank while you sit there in the safety of never committing?”</p><p>He examines the angles, the stiffness of her stance, the proof she’s stood on the edge, doesn’t want to throw it all over the side, not when she thinks there’s going to be the comfort of a warm bed and a purpose just around the bend that isn’t about killing or be killed. She trusts the exposure, the risk the soldier takes and hopes to come home from and doesn’t think a self-serving man like Reyes Vidal can do that. The irony is that he needs the secrecy, the shrouded house of mirrors to inspire those below but she won’t understand the creation of an idol from a mouth like his. She wants to see herself in him, in the Charlatan. </p><p>Crux tries to placate the situation gently telling him, “I had one made for you.” </p><p>He relents, mostly because the argument is too much effort, and when he walks back in straightening his cuffs, hat in hand, Lynx looks at him in a different light, hard, serious, but contemplative. She doesn’t say anything, sits back down slowly and Crux gently puts her hair behind her ear, lips curving. </p><p>It’s been years now since he’s put on a uniform, one that tells him he has a right to stand there, a right to the brotherhood and in the loneliness of carved out insides, it becomes an anchor. All his identities, he can become one more, it doesn’t change anything. </p><p>Lighting a cigarette, riding out in a reinforced military grade vehicle, he lets it waft out the window, several other lower-level grunts laughing in the backseat, young, fresh, resilient because time is on their side. Find some place to make it work, even if it costs everything, your pockets can be refilled. They talk about their jobs, how boring guard duty is and if they’re lucky, they’ll get to see the ceremony from their assignments. </p><p>“Do you think the Pathfinder would show me his shotgun? The infamous Kett killer!” </p><p>“Is he allowed to carry that thing with him during the ceremony?”</p><p>“We’ve all got guns. ‘Cause anytime bandits could ride over those hills and-“ One soldier snarls like an animal, drawing his hands up like claws and goes in to tickle attack, “Kill us all!” They chortle, the other soldier kicking him back with the third protesting they don’t have any room. </p><p>A hand comes up, grabbing the back of Reyes’ seat and a set of glittering eyes find his. </p><p>“Spare a cig?” The man says, but Reyes lies, “Last one.” And he sits back, disappointed, muttering how the craving is hard to satisfy. </p><p>The driver slowly pulls up to the drop off sight where Batus is standing, waiting to give instructions. The outpost is still a walk away but already there are Collective agents and guards standing by, the angles of the buildings, the offices, the machinery protected by life. Batus booms for soldiers to come close, and Reyes steps out, gliding his hat on low, cigarette curling with smoke. He meets eyes with his Turian weapon specialist and security commander and gives a brief acknowledgment, walking for the set stage where Angara mingle. </p><p>“Hey, is that guy not a guard?” He can hear the soldiers talk. </p><p>“I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere-“</p><p>“Focus! We’ve got a mission today.” Batus commands, earning their silence, and Reyes leaves them behind. </p><p>Keema is standing on the stage, a low platform with a few instruments, weathered drums and several bells. It has the banner of the Collective and the Initiative fluttering behind for the cameras, and the name of the outpost between them, a careful decision and political statement. The Nomad is parked near the other vehicles but the Pathfinder team is out of sight, likely inside the main office receiving the final instructions before the media arrives with the outpost’s population. </p><p>Reyes trails his hands along the smooth railings, walking along the still gleaming walkways, the ramps to shining doors, feels the Pathfinder’s touch in every fiber, the genuine care and looks at the high windows of apartments that will enjoy the vibrant orange of Kadara sun. He finds a nice corner, a place to see the stage without the chance a stray gaze will become concerned with him and finishes his cigarette. He doesn’t think anyone will notice him in these clothes and yet what the heart disagrees on leaves him pensive. </p><p>From across the barrier, the dips of the outpost built sturdily into Kadara’s dirt, a door opens to reveal the Pathfinder in his white and blue armor and Reyes flicks the butt, making sure his cap is pulled down nice and low. He doesn’t make any sudden movements, but Ryder’s focus is completely consumed by his job, a serious draw to his brow as he listens then talks into his open omni-tool. Out the door comes Liam and Cora, a party of Initiative emblems and glory. Only Liam is smiling, bumping Cora with an elbow that she takes with shielded grace. </p><p>“The mayor and his residents are en route!” An announcement rings across the outpost from the installed security system and Ryder, no, the Pathfinder, nods his people to their positions, walking down the ramp toward the stage. He formally greets Keema, holding her hand in both of his and she smiles, something no longer uncommon to her facials. They talk, low enough not to be heard from off the stage and soon Ryder’s Angara companion is joining him, and puts a friendly hand on each of their shoulders, a natural affinity to bringing people close with his many Angaran siblings. </p><p>The distance begins to fill with approaching vehicles, low on the ground to avoid any scavengers’ attempts to destabilize the grand opening by blasting a container full of Initiative given citizens to their rocky demise. Murmurs ripple, a strange excitement rising, transformed, not quite the pure and fanatic hope that once led the mission but not too far off to be called merely starvation for good news. They’ve been pulled from the stars and beaten to the ground, risen up out of their own ashes and still have the strength to assign meaning in putting down their flags. Rather than conquered ground, Kadara forgives the outpost, and like Havarl, it stakes its own dangers in wanting to build on its surface. Andromeda is its own conqueror. </p><p>The first to arrive is the media, cameras stepping down and out of their hired transports all profitable smiles and charming shark teeth. The Nexus sent publicity team is last to put their cameras up on their figurative shoulders, always a step behind those making their living from snatching information for a narrative and a line of angles blow up the channels, the choices ample and quite the opposite from the time when nobody wanted to chase the Pathfinder out to Eos and burn up with him for a couple credits. </p><p>Liam trots beside the new mayor of Ditaeon, guards following on either shoulder, and given the hand motions, the Tempest crisis specialist and self proclaimed cultural ambassador is relaying a bit of appreciated inside knowledge. The attentive and even dryly amused lines on Christmas Tate’s weathered face indicate the man’s good at first impressions and is keeping the run-by interesting. He regards the base with a slow appraisal as he listens, but his gait denies the manicured high brow of a stiffly loyal retiree. He can see what’s going on, what he’s been placed with, keeping on a fine line of balance and Liam is likely telling him straight up how vital (and fucked up) his position is. </p><p>They approach the stage, and Liam leaves his side for a more subdued but essential eye in the darkened wings. Mayor Tate reaches out for the Pathfinder’s hand first, brightly blue eyes creasing in pleasure, swept back hair going blue in the light of day. Even men with their own glories, years on this young soldier can tell how far he’s come, what he’s managed to pull back together, the grip on either side of the canyon yanking two halves back into one. </p><p>They’re still preparing, and so they merely get acquainted, Keema and Tate shaking hands and learning the other’s face. Media begin to slither closer, sweeping the base with intention to record mistakes, faults or cleverly disguised political statements but watching them eventually come for the stage proves the base is as straight forward as its creator. </p><p>“Pathfinder Ryder!” </p><p>Keri moves through the crowd, offering her hand to him and he steps down to put his palm in hers. </p><p>Her naturally shameless and future looking eyes sweep over Ditaeon and she compliments, “For all the horror stories about Kadara’s badlands, this is quite an impressive step for the Initiative.” She shows her leads, wit clever and smoothed to make sure not to have her stepping into her own mouth, “And the talk on the Nexus says the Pathfinder team built it themselves.”</p><p>“We had help.” The Pathfinder offers vaguely although his tone relays friendliness. </p><p>“Can’t imagine what this cost. Don’t tell me it came out of Pathfinder funds?”</p><p>His eyes crinkle slightly, “Trust me, you don’t want to see our checkbook. But Tann keeps those top secret and balances it himself.” </p><p>“Once an accountant, always an accountant.” </p><p>Ryder chuckles, surprisingly pulled together, capable of a laugh, and Reyes glides one more cigarette between his lips, the shadow of his cap hiding the stare. </p><p>Cora arrives, leading the outpost’s vital flesh and blood, the people, the first wave, the voyagers Ryder carried home the first time when nothing was left of the recon team but old memories and dusting bones. They’re in finely tuned uniforms, blues, whites, clear distinctions obvious, as so not to confuse who is allowed to fully enjoy the benefits of the base and who is marked red by the remaining consequences of defecting. To the average eye there are the good people and scientists and the pirates with guns masquerading as military. </p><p>Ryder is back on the stage as the people draw in close and the shields boost up, doming their outpost for the extra security. Keema’s soldiers sit at their drums, beginning a low and slow rhythm, their hands going from inside the drum to the rim for a variety of sounds, deep travelling notes and sharp poignant spikes. It softens the noise of conversation, makes the air almost palpable, even for non-Angara and a bell begins, once, tingling the spine, buzzing in boots, twice, touching the scalp, caressing the back of the neck. An Angara woman stands beside Keema and with her full chest lets out a somber, beautiful note that calls for other voices in their common tongue to join, starting a round on the words from centuries of culture clung to just by pure determination. </p><p>Arms folded behind his back, Ryder’s expression no longer the focus of the moment except for one man, has levelled out into a glossy contained wall that Reyes knows well. SAM is helping him maintain stability, and it’s an ugly relief that matches the crackling burn of a long drag. </p><p>When Keema’s voice echoes into the air, a forlorn weight sits in the chest, for the war they suffer through, the small victories that are so easily crumpled and for destinies that don’t satisfy. The bell rings, rings, rings, and drifts off like the wind over the hills, bursting across the body and then following an invisible path until it’s gone, leaving a trail of quickly vanishing sensations on the skin. </p><p>Scooping air in her palm, Keema brings it to her chest, senses the alterations of the energy and says with pride, “We have purified this outpost for the Initiative and formally welcome you to Kadara!” </p><p>A rush of applause follows because the emotions of the Angara are impossible not to be swept up in, so deep and roaring, so magnificent, like the ocean when the waves pound the shore and race to meet toes waiting. To remind each person they are a part of the universe, one grain of sand on this beach, and for now, even without the water they had on Earth, it surrounds them in the same way. Reyes claps slowly, seeing his own soldiers celebrate something they were told was off limits for them, silently claiming their entitlement as his own. </p><p>Keema first shakes hand with the Pathfinder, the man who gave them the opportunity, whether that be interpreted as good or bad, and camera shutters burst, the Angara woman who fronts the Charlatan’s castle and the hero who wears white but is covered in red underneath. </p><p>Stepping to the side, they introduce Mayor Tate who tells of a confidence inducing success in his records and his intentions to bring fruitful stories and resources to their people. He talks with a slight rasp, a voice that’s known the underground, battled with dirt and dusts and struggled for breath. Chosen with care, with a knowledge he will never put credits, fame, ease on his shoulders over the common man and woman, the Charlatan thinks he will have to leave Crux something for her troubles in carefully picking this man as their first line into official outpost business. He won’t be interested in forcing the Initiative glory onto this base, and likely will let Collective in with little protest for the benefits. If his people want to drink, eat, own a modded gun, he’ll be on their side. </p><p>The ceremony ends with Mayor Tate giving one good, even humorous command to explore, get to know their base and first come first serve is the law on the apartments. The cameras invite interview with the people who picked up the Kadara mission, and some approach the Mayor but for Reyes, the chaos of moving people is perfect chance for an escape. He wonders, sinfully, if, even knowing his unlearned lesson, he can pull the Pathfinder in, despite still stinging from his last mistake and carefully, leaning back against a wall with his littered butts and still smoking cigarette in his mouth, he sends a message with coordinates and nothing else to Ryder’s omni-tool. </p><p>Glancing over to the Pathfinder who is shaking hands with recruits a little closer than comfort, he notices the man doesn’t even react to a message. It doesn’t surprise him, he is in the middle of a conversation, and one of those soldiers who was in the backseat of Reyes’ transport grins like he’s won the lottery. Ryder shows them the shotgun, lets one hold it, and earns his name in their mouth with adoration and fondness. Suddenly he glances toward Reyes’ covered shadow with a certain knowing stare, puts up a hand to excuse himself and begins walking his way. </p><p>The cigarette. Reyes quickly puts it out on the surface behind him, dropping it and slips into the cover of the next corner. His heart is racing as Ryder steps over to the wall, only partially visible but close enough that Reyes’ can smell his cologne, bending his soul, creaking on his limits. Leaning down, Ryder picks up a butt, still warm, and knows well whose brand it is. His hand is in view, and Reyes notices with a sinking deep in his organs, that he’s not wearing their omni-tool, but a fresh one from the Initiative. </p><p>Ryder straightens up, still holding the butt, but now he’s almost completely out of sight and Reyes doesn’t have the courage to peek, hoping not to be seen, but just as well wishing it to happen. It would only take one step from either of them-</p><p>“Ryder!” A voice says with a distinct emotional lilt, and he turns around, Cora coming in close, words all in a rush, pained, hurt, on the verge of tears, “The Leusinia! The Leusinia, it’s at the Nexus, it’s arrived! And Ishara is gone, she’s gone.” </p><p>Ryder grabs her, collects her from collapsing to the ground in grief, and asks gently, “And the rest of the ark?”</p><p>Reyes drops his head back against the wall, a cold cavern of disappointment eating the youthful anxiety, the wants, the expectations he had time. He closes his eyes, waiting for the blow, cooled disgust settling beneath his stomach for his cowardice. </p><p>“Sarissa’s alive, she’s made it, they’ve saved hundreds of lives but so many- so many have-“ The grief tightens her throat, “They need us.”</p><p>The Pathfinder doesn’t hesitate.</p><p>“Let’s go.”</p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>“Are you still there, Vidal?”</p><p>The voice comes up through a channel from the main building of Draullir, a line to the Charlatan’s private office above acquisitions. An easier means of communication for direct messages and typically a faster way to receive a response on the more mundane topics from their leader, it feeds a signal to the important offices of his presence. </p><p>“The light’s green, isn’t it?” </p><p>Shuba, freshly appointed as a representative to manage duties once handled by Crux and one of the few present for the reveal of the Charlatan’s identity to kill Sloane, snorts, “You’ve been in there for hours. Not that I’m complaining, I’m glad to get all my sign-offs without having to search for you.”</p><p>“The power of email is one that reaches even across solar systems.”</p><p>“And how many of those fantastic little digital letters have gone unopened in your inbox?”</p><p>He doesn’t answer, knowing well he’s ignored and deleted quite a few emails. The silence is, as it’s been recently, damning and she says, “Can lead a horse to water, but can’t make it drink.”</p><p>Leaning back, sighing to the stiffness of his muscles, Reyes replies, massaging his eyes, “I prefer whisky anyway.”</p><p>She laughs, a brief, contained noise, “The guards here in Draullir want to know if they’ll get rotated shifts in order to get hours at Ditaeon.” </p><p>Looking into the window over acquisitions, watching the methodical movement of supplies, in and out, the chemicals, the powders, the pieces that will eventually be handled into guns, weapons, he bounces his lighter off his desk thoughtfully. </p><p>“They want time at the outpost?”</p><p>“They’re going to start buying off shifts from each other if we don’t start a schedule.”</p><p>That earns a thin smirk. How very Kadara of them. </p><p>“The Pathfinder team generously built our visiting forces their own bunkhouse, and I’ve seen the first shifts’ pictures in the channels.”</p><p>He has too. If he closes his eyes, he can see it, a sunrise fit for a man who needs a new day, gleaming off those impossibly blue waters, just like Ryder said. For a moment he’s there, in that invited space, unscorned, sharing a sunrise from a set of coordinates that have gone unanswered and lost in space. But he can’t stay there, and Shuba is talking to him.</p><p>“-enough requests that it’ll be easy to send out a sheet for the weekly division. They all want to wake up in those fresh sheets and see the sun. Plus a couple of the guys say that those scientists are worth the extra trouble, a little Romeo and Juliet fantasy going on.”</p><p>“Sure.” He says, filing a report that reads the Angaran team has made it to H-047c without issue. Agreeing to send off cases of bullets and ammunition disguised as mineral infused water to the Paradise on Elaaden, he shoots off another email and then confirms the numbers for stocked barrels of gun powder taken off a shattered shuttle that didn’t make it home. </p><p>“Easy enough.” Shuba’s typing can be heard, “Alright, I’ve sent you the first draft. And a little something extra.”</p><p>A knock on the door into the base rather than the cave turns his head. </p><p>“It needed a messenger?”</p><p>“You said I could get you to drink if it was whisky.” She replies, the door revealing an agent holding a bottle, single malt and quite the incentive to open this email. He takes it, looks at the branding, and says, “You’ll get your response within the hour.”</p><p>Code red flashes all over the Nexus, the Leusinia bringing on a dangerous pursuer at the cost of their escape, the Decimation led by a vicious higher level Kett, the Valiant and a mangler of arks and travelers. The Pathfinder is not alone in driving off this threat, by his side Asari Pathfinder, Sarissa Theris, stands ready, strong, and Avitus Rix, who has come out of mourning to bear the title. Three Pathfinders, an elite team under Ryder’s command, and the vendetta to fuel courage and wither fear. </p><p>It’s a bone chilling indication that war is a paper thin door away, the Valiant booming over the Decimation’s speakers that all those who challenge the Kett, try to outsmart the evolved will be evaporated after being sucked dry. Nobody steals from the Valiant, risks the Archon’s holy mission and escapes with their life. Sarissa’s brittle rage appears a little too wounded by the threats but with the collection of SAMs and their warriors, the Decimation is broken apart, blown into retirement and its inhabitants massacred with intention to prevent even one escape, but not without learning dark secrets about the Asari’s Pathfinder situation. </p><p>Matriarch Ishara was not defeated by the Kett’s disrespect to diplomacy but rather at the abandonment of an honored post for the perceived glory bestowed from data on the enemy. Despite the Nexus’ attempt to keep the files private, it escapes, hissing out into the stars what one bodyguard threw away in order to be deemed a hero. The begging by a beloved and courageous Matriarch, and the cool, even heartless dismissal pales the heroic deeds, the dried husk of an Asari leader’s image and the disgrace to Sarissa’s name brutally rips the title of Pathfinder from her. </p><p>Captain Atandra of the Leusinia provides the counsel, the somber nod for all to see that even with protecting many vulnerable citizens from the Kett, ultimately it was Sarissa’s own greed that allowed their Pathfinder to fall and put them in danger. By the actions of a junior commando, Vederia Damali, who managed to get the ship enough power to transport them to the Nexus, she is raised to the call of duty and accepts. </p><p>The tactical data of the Kett’s movement is a tainted but necessary boost for the Initiative who has been searching for the means to chase the Archon through space, avoid conflict at their home base and defeat the overlord. On the Nexus channels, half a dozen speak on the fall of the second Asari Pathfinder, the rise of the third, assessing Vederia’s capabilities, while others celebrate Avitus’ fragile, dutiful eyes and the shoulder he leans on from Ryder, their shining sun, the call for orbit, pulling in the fresher Pathfinders and providing them the support they likely crave. </p><p>They look good together, the Pathfinders, the pretty eyes surrounded by feathering light blue marks that tell of an honest and immediate reverence and attachment, and the deep bond between two men who grieved a similar loss for a title unexpected and are making it through against all odds. They look good together, carry the same burdens, share a like-minded mission. They deserve each other, and Avitus makes vulnerable eyes at Ryder that maybe even he doesn’t understand himself yet. Those eyes pierce the heart that watches hundreds of planets away from a screen. In interviews, press conferences, it’s clear the time spent in the upper offices is growing relationships sturdy and beautiful, as gold as their heroes and the cold, empty shell of the Reaper’s helmet stares down at the Charlatan like the angel of death it is. </p><p>With all the arks except for the Salarian ark Paarchero found, the outposts established and the trials for Spender and Knight in full force, the Pathfinders’ mission narrows on Pathfinder Zevin Raeka and finding her, whether that be alive or not. They need her, and Salarians need their face on the front of a battlefield. </p><p>The scrambler fumbled into departing hands at the last minute by a sent agent who had to run to make it in time before the Tempest lifted off and with it came the crafted narrative of William’s betrayal, corruption and careful cherry picking of data so as to not make an example of the Charlatan’s arm twisting as effective against the leading military in Heleus. Knight’s case while still a clear act of terrorism, is far more complicated. She has wealth on her side, knowledge, and lawyers to come to her defense, and she paid them for their best parries. Even in the celebrations of the Pathfinders’ victory over the Valiant, her case is beginning to crack Alec Ryder’s concept of an AI and a human fusion and ask the necessary. Is what we’re doing good for the psyche? Are Ryder’s evaluations private information and for what reason? Is there a risk of permanent damage? How do we know what SAM is doing to Ryder’s brain and why has the public not been informed of the secret knowledge of the ‘super soldier’?</p><p>The Nexus is attempting to sweep it underneath the glory of fresh faces on the Initiative headlines, Avitus and Vederia but it is being picked up by journalists, discussed, and will not go quietly into the night, even if they attempt to put it on less watched channels. Insubordination claims against Ryder for affections on the wrong side do go beneath the waves of new information, likely because his superiors would like to erase such evidence, seal it away with Spender’s jail cell door and pretend they didn’t see the brief glance into how the Pathfinder gets good reputation elsewhere. Only those within Ryder’s inner circle know what that picture really means, and how close they were to gaining a terrifying insight into the leader of the Collective. But now is not the time for a scandal about their star Pathfinder and as usual, issues dealing with shadowed men are closed away in drawers with locks that have misplaced keys. </p><p>Reyes expected as much to be made out of a picture that doesn’t even clearly show his face, or any discerning features besides maybe his outfit. They could ride out the scandal if they had to, ‘the Pathfinder shares a bottle of whiskey and a few charming, intoxicated smiles with a rebel at Sloane Kelly’s private party during infiltration mission.’ It barely holds a shape, would blur at the first opinionated analysis. If the ethics of their closeness gets questioned, then obviously they think all mutineers retched, unworthy of a place next to the hero, and if it is about the kindness in his eyes, well, then it’s about the punishment for rejects. To demonize all ‘traitors’ is beginning to be the lesser held stance, with all the blending on the outposts. But did he think, maybe, he wanted to see the man who would show the beauty in a terrible, vicious place could be defended as a man worth something more than his criminal record and place of living, well, Reyes Vidal won’t say. </p><p>The notorious punch Ryder threw for them told plenty though. Reyes Vidal isn’t a man for spoken honesty and actions speak louder than words. He reads a message and turns off his monitor, pulling his coat and gliding his cap on. He’ll protect a promise made to a man who would throw a punch for him, and the pretty sunrise they both think is worth something. </p><p>“Didn’t expect you here.” Lynx says with reserved bitterness but when he holds open a palm to take the monocular, she gives it to him without another word. He looks out into the cold, hard wilderness, deathly quiet, and dark. The hills tell him nothing, just meld into black shadow, harsh masking of any telling detail and will hide danger until the threat is on their heels. </p><p>The scouting tower for the outpost is low, to prevent the ease of targeting it for quick casualties so they only have so much distance to work with. Lynx is also wearing her Collective coat, the winds chilled at this late hour and she squints into the land. Behind her stands a short man with a sniper rifle. </p><p>“Vince said tonight was the night.”</p><p>“I believe him.” Reyes says, because he’s double checked the information and the man’s motivations. “We’ll let them cut the power to the dome force field. Draw them in close with what looks like a successful ambush.” </p><p>She looks at him, assessing, brow drawn tight, suspicious, and he clicks the monocular back into its compact shape, “Radwan is at the other tower so when he gets the signal, we’ll be able to pick off their sleuths.” </p><p>Below, lights in apartments glow faintly out of shielded windows, offices, and guards murmur amongst each other, guns on their belts and slung over their shoulders. A group of citizens leave one building, talking critically about the quality of minerals on just the surface of Kadara, while they walk toward the cafeteria for a midnight coffee. </p><p>“You’ve kept this information from the outpost.” Lynx says icily and Reyes notices something, walking to the other side of the tower. He reextends the monocular, sees movement far off on the hill, up, glide smooth, like a vehicle and then back down out of sight. The sniper agent watches, shifts in his boots then peers into the darkness as well. </p><p>Immediately he gets contact. </p><p>“See that?” Radwan asks shortly. </p><p>“Noted. We’re probably about to lose power. They’ve been watching where they buried the lines for electricity.”</p><p>“Will is waiting near the back-up generator.”</p><p>“We’ll need to defend the outpost for at least fifteen minutes before that’ll get enough juice for the dome to turn back on.” </p><p>“Vidal.” </p><p>“Those who need to know, know.” He tells her, handing back the monocular. They wait for the final citizen to vanish behind closed doors. Once the power is cut, all these doors will automatically lock and prevent confused unarmed people running out into the danger, a measure put in place by their mayor and protector. Reyes glances across the remaining agents outside but he has yet to see Tate and in their concentration only the wind cuts through the tower. </p><p>A moment of silence, another, tension drawing the cold air tight around their faces. </p><p>The dome whooshes loudly, vanishing for the naked stars and sky, and lights cut everywhere plunging them further into darkness. The weight of noiseless seconds settle heavy on the mind, the soft clatter of guns loading and then the first shot, muffled, far. </p><p>“One.” Radwan brags and Will comes online, “Got the generator started.” </p><p>Voices can be heard from within the buildings but the real concern is the low flying transporter that swoops in, dropping close enough that jump jets can mitigate damage by the ground. Across the side of the ship is the Yakshi brand, but half the soldiers are wearing Loyalist colors. They storm in and Reyes commands, “Shoot, soldier.”</p><p>The man sets up, fumbles on the railing, and says, “They’ve got- they’ve got masking devices. It’s hard to tell-“ </p><p>Reyes overwhelms him, grabbing the rifle, loading it with a sharp jerk, and puts his eye into the scope. Following the interpreted path, he looks for the telltale blur of men behind a screen. He shoots through the smoke, reloads, finds a new target, shoots, sees something in precise vision that calls for his attention. Quickly handing back the rifle, he tells the agent, “Look for the blur against the buildings. Lynx, you’re with me.”</p><p>She presses a hand against one of her holstered guns, looks at him intensely, heart hammering, then says, “Sir.”</p><p>They descend the ladder with speed, Christmas Tate back pressed at a wall nearby loading his shotgun with a critical brow. Reyes falls behind his Asari Representative, letting her take the lead, and she glances to him but thankfully follows the minute direction and says, “Collective Representative Lynx of the caves of Draullir, Mayor Tate. We’re here to offer your outpost support.”</p><p>“Well, your intel wasn’t wrong that this attack was tonight. You’ve got the dome restarted?”</p><p>“Sir.” </p><p>Gunfire rippling the air, booming in the tender ear to meet the prepared Collective defense force who have direct orders to make sure as little damage comes to the outpost as possible. Reyes hears the roar of vehicles, grounding tires coming from opposite direction and murmurs into his omni-tool for Batus to get into position. </p><p>“How long you give that goddamn smokescreen?” Tate asks, and Lynx glances around their hiding spot to the strange, unnatural fuzz of soldiers moving in closer, “Thirty more seconds. But they’ll want to use that to their advantage.”</p><p>“Guess it’ll be better to get in close.” The man grins, a bit of bloodthirsty leaking through, “Can’t let you young things get all the glory.” </p><p>An explosion tears through the air, lighting the world around with fire, and breathes over their shoulders. Turning, Reyes and Lynx look at the once vehicle and now fireball like a strange bonfire. She spins out both her guns, and says, “Let’s go.”</p><p>Lynx shoots with arms extended, using the range of both her hands to go two directions, meet back in the middle for stronger defenses and cover her own back. She doesn’t need Reyes to protect her blind spots but when he draws close, gun over her shoulder for a shot at a high perched sniper on the apartments, she doesn’t argue. They meet back to back, the soldiers crawling in from all the corners of the buildings, opportunists and avengers all the same and Tate’s echoing shotgun makes a distinct blast for each time he pulls the trigger. </p><p>Shields boosted, they deflect shots, the bursting pellets of shells crackling uselessly. Another explosion tells of how effective Batus’ cannon is, the fire roaring on the hard grasses and demanding submission. </p><p>Close range tackles their distance, men coming in with night vision gleaming red like demon eyes and Reyes sweeps a low kick, knocking ankles out, dropping a Loyalist heavy on his back to shoot him clean in the forehead. Lynx beats back a man with the butt of her gun so she can get a good angle for a bullet and they turn to one another, the law of the battlefield for soldiers of common purpose telling her something new about her leader. </p><p>Breathing heavily in the adrenaline, she stares at him, likely asking herself, ‘who <em>are</em> you?’ and he offers her a telling smirk as they stand surrounded by fallen enemies and the wonderful sound of their own victory as the dome booms back on, trapping the remains of a predicted attack and sending the others fleeing smartly back to their snake holes. </p><p>Lights buzz on, soldiers rising out of their crouches, some rustling through Loyalist pockets, and Lynx can finally see him in the artificial lights, see his eyes and his uniform which is so much like hers, although it deceptively portrays a soldier of lesser rank. Mayor Tate trots for the middle of the outpost, sweat touching his brow and with lungs of steel, commands, “Check all buildings, make sure we’ve taken out all of these motherfuckers and then let’s celebrate. I didn’t buy two barrels of whiskey from the Charlatan because I wanted to go hungry till my next paycheck. All injured get a shoulder and head for the medbay, we’ve already got the beds and the nurses up and ready.”</p><p>A few limping men and bleeding pale faces take refuge in the helping hands of others, but mostly the energy is one of raw potential. They can and will protect this place, be their own kind of heroes and when the doors fly open, scientists and workers alike all come rushing out, shaking hands, grabbing men and women in hugs the way only strangers in the uncertainties and highs and lows of war can without knowing each other’s names. A bond is formed with a uniform. </p><p>“This is a win for Collective and Initiative alike!” Mayor Tate roars, “Meet me in the mess hall!”</p><p>Lynx belatedly holsters her guns, looks around at the blood and the bodies and Reyes follows her thoughts saying, “We have a clean-up team on their way.” </p><p>The soldiers who need a big swallow of whiskey are already following citizens who have a new found respect for their fellow man in the honest shielding of their lives with their own and Reyes nods that way, “You should go. Make your name known. Mayor Tate can give your division its rightful praise. This is exactly the publicity we need.”</p><p>“No.” She says slowly, “You’re-.. I’ll help clean up. That’s where you’ll be, won’t it?” A knowing somber understanding has found her gaze and he says, “At least go grab us a couple glasses of whiskey. It’s free.” Which earns him his first smile. </p><p>Xxx</p><p>Word hits the Nexus about the Collective protecting Ditaeon, the promise made and kept and it sings positive of a relationship that has Initiative leadership twitching at the eye but begrudgingly admitting it something necessary. The Loyalists are the terrorists adamant not to change, to cling to their hatred and with Spender’s trial closing the details of their budding relationship with the Charlatan away like a secret affair, the Nexus has no other choice than to offer recognition of the bravery in soldiers that were once its own. Mayor Tate’s success, his actions and immediate popularity with both Initiative and Collective alike makes a good bridge. It all presents pretty on paper. Lynx sits with him in Tartarus, bored with looking through reports, tequila in hand and brow low in annoyed reading. </p><p>“Is this seriously what you do?” </p><p>Reyes glances to her, “Someone has to.”</p><p>“I want to know where you learned to shoot a sniper rifle.” She flips the datapad onto the table, leaning in with her tequila, a dangerous glow to her eyes. It isn’t enough to call what they have trust, but she no longer thinks him just a flirting con artist who happened into a seat of authority by accident. She’s been witness to the power he exudes in situations that easily chase away spineless performers and that devilish smuggler with a few too many bar tabs left unpaid seems distant to the soldier she’s taken a security in. He does a number of thankless jobs and risks the bullet and for that she draws closer.</p><p>“I learned the basics back in the Milky Way. But I’ve been practicing.” He answers, seeing a headline that catches his attention, “Radwan can teach you if you’re interested.”</p><p>“Why not make him a representative? He would be good for recruits.”</p><p>“He doesn’t want the responsibility.” Reyes replies distantly, and she sighs, throwing an arm back over the chair, “Whatever, he’d be good for training- What’s the matter?”</p><p>He rereads the headline. With Sarissa’s stolen data, a major lead has been discovered about the Archon and possibly the Salarian ark. Without an exact time, in the undercover privacy of a secret mission, the Tempest has vanished off the grid, taking the three Pathfinders and with them the assurance of Ryder’s safety. </p><p>Reyes slowly puts the datapad down and covers his forehead and eyes with a hand, breath hurting and Lynx leans forward even further, putting a warm and startlingly comforting hand to his shoulder, “Goddess, Vidal, what’s happened?”</p><p>With not even another word between them, so much time wasted diverting the conversation, avoiding confessions he arrogantly thought he had time for, Reyes endures regret so painful he actually lets Lynx touch him and doesn’t flee the knowing eyes watching him react in the moment to the anguish of possibly never seeing those smart whiskey eyes and generous smile again. Sunrise protected, the sunset crawls away to reveal the chilled, rapidly cooling grounds that remind what the Pathfinders’ destiny looks like without all the fancy reclaiming. He’s going to war and he might die.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Desperation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>If I get the chance, I'm taking it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Rereading Starlight, it's come a long way! There are so many things I'm unsatisfied by, so many areas that could be written so much better but I'm happy to have continued with this project and gotten to talk in the comments with everyone. I have so many areas I'd love to discuss, break down, critique in my own work but.. well maybe at the finish. </p><p>Hope everyone's doing well! We're coming to the end! The final battle is swiftly approaching (:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Word spreads quick, ‘The Collective can get their hands on anything.’ This has been the case for quite some time within the ranks of pirates and criminals but it’s the first time Initiative propaganda fed people have gotten a taste of the spy empire’s plate. It hollows out the stomach for more, and only incentives others to make their connections under the table. Mayor Tate doesn’t care where the whiskey comes from, how the rifles arrive or what the multi-terrain four wheelers cost as long as the hunger is answered. He lets them talk, the tentative mingling of people thought to be too opposite and word of a proper road both literal and figurative between them becomes less a sneer at the mess hall table and more a hushed talk about logistics as he smokes cigars from his office. He’s got the guarantee of a proper defense, has seen it with his very eyes and says as much when contact from Addison’s team insists differentiation. </p><p>“Don’t you have bigger fish to fry?” He says, puffing, “Production here is up twenty-three percent and ever rising. Soil quality is best we’ve had since ever. Starving people can’t do anything and against all these ‘codes of conduct’ you <em>are</em> waiting for the first transporter, which I’ve said has Collective stamped on it. Impressed is the first thing you’ll be, then appreciative. They’ve given us a huge plot of land and access to the caves and aren’t gouging us for interest. We can’t afford anything but their supply crate cost, certainly don’t have the man power to barter and the Charlatan has rerouted our ships to make sure they avoid getting shot down when flying over the badlands. What else could you ask for besides the untimely red line of tape?”</p><p>Addison grips white knuckles for an argument but even she can’t say what she wants to. Don’t fraternize with the enemy and give them inner knowledge while we need them. We can’t go hungry, we can’t go without supplies but we come before them, even on their own planet. It’s too lopsided, too blatantly hypocritical and she grits her teeth, signs them off and probably has half a thought toward just avoiding the in between the lines in the reports for an ‘ignorance is bliss’ mindset while the relationship has benefits unparalleled.  </p><p>The outpost is a half decent distraction for impatient waiting and could be perceived the final stop at a fork in their intersecting paths, the first Romeo and Juliet, nothing left but memories and considerations. The Charlatan will take care of every fiber, every panel of glass, and all the tender lives that were cupped carefully in the Pathfinder’s palm, shielded from harsh winds that would chill their unprepared souls. The Collective leader isn’t a shining angel of prosperity, doesn’t make pretty promises with a pretty face and could never be the Pathfinder’s replacement. He is a wicked whisper that they don’t have to be good to get what they want, the enticing game of cards on a table after work, a strong drink that’ll put a man on his back so he can sleep without worrying dreams, the coiling arms of a hired bed warmer that feel just as good as the real thing. He’ll give it to them, the right to bear arms, the modded technology to fuel growing ideas no matter how against ‘regulations’, they just have to let him in. There was never clarification in the promise to how he was to take care of the outpost other than to keep them alive and he intends to do just that, and more. Is it corruption because corruption is inevitable or simply a futile call into the dark echoes of space for that righteous man to come back down and make reason for another junction on their largely separate journeys? </p><p>Sometimes, just to make sure he knows it’s all really out of his reach, Reyes checks in with his gifted omni-tool, and every time he is met with black nothingness. Like Liam’s old school video camera, something retired, shelved, put to the side for the severity of their call to duty, neither answer him, leaving him standing in a room that doesn’t carry even one physical reminder that Ryder ever set foot outside of protocol’s direction. </p><p>The warm cologne, the scent of laundry done frequently, it’s all faded, suffering the test of time. The last thing he has is their brand, the habit Ryder vowed to quit and couldn’t and for a sinner it does provide a damning sense of salvation, albeit twisted and fit for Kadara. Let it kill him slowly as long as it keeps reviving memories. </p><p>Reyes sits in his cockpit and drifts between the past and half thoughts, the muted fallout he deserves finding him when he gets too relaxed, settles underneath sleep that his body craves and his mind fears. Sunlight blended with shadow, they stand on the edge where they first met, Kralla’s Song, against the railing above the slums and the stretching badlands and the grand expanse of their opportunities but this time he can’t help letting it all spill out, all his fancy tricks and avoidances gone, unavailable. </p><p>“I came here with the intention of using you.” </p><p>He hates saying it, but he hates even more that Ryder is watching him say it. </p><p>“And even when it became so much more than that, I still betrayed you.”</p><p>Those gold flecked eyes drop to the mouth that won’t stop confessing, even when his entirety protests admitting what he’s done, claiming the responsibility that won’t free him anyway. </p><p>“I liked the way you looked at me, and I didn’t want that to stop. I wanted to be the man you saw in me. But I’m not that man.”</p><p>Ryder rises off that counter and finally he thinks he’ll be forced to see that terrible expression he evaded at the market place base but the only thing that stares at him is the helmet of the Pathfinder and his reflection. The hurt in his own eyes startles him and the Pathfinder turns, everything slowing, the seconds elongating, blurring at the edges so every customer is only the fuzz of dulled movement. Weight holds his legs, his arms heavier than lead, and he watches Ryder move a shoulder to get through several drunk pirates, leaving the lover revealed as a traitor even when Reyes dies to protest, get in at least one favorable admission, one that isn’t just acknowledging the bad, one that tells Ryder it wasn’t merely all a façade of affection. If it all sours, he wants the sweet with his bitter to give him the chance to say he’s got a heart and it beat to a steady rhythm in that room beneath the slums. </p><p>A screen above a table flips on, and an announcement by a reporter is chillingly serious and sharp. </p><p>“The human Pathfinder, Ryder, has fallen in battle with the Kett. The entirety of the Nexus is devastated by the sudden news, shocked to hear of this tragedy and wonders what this means for the Initiative moving forward. But for now, we grieve our possibly biggest loss yet.”</p><p>The world shatters, cold water on his face, in his chest and Reyes startles, jerking his legs back off the dashboard, breath shallow. Cold sweat has touched his back and he turns in the protected solitude of his own ship like the presence of a ghost has walked through him. Darkness meets him quietly, the only monster around being Reyes’ psyche. Free of the brittle tightness of nerves, he sighs, exhausted and rubs a hand down his face. When awake, he’s desperate for news, finding distraction harder and harder to come by with each passing day and when asleep, he’s plagued by the storm of his own poison, things unsaid, feelings pushed down and vulnerabilities unprotected by logic and the daily chore of the day to day. </p><p>Reason is holding a weaker and weaker candle to nightmares, places where instinct fails, words go unheard and lost, the unknown engulfing everything to spit out the bones of his most intimate insides. If Lachlan’s knife doesn’t find him around a corner, then he watches the collapse of Kadara without the Pathfinder’s steady stream of approval and if he isn’t scorned then he’s gutted by losing even the comfort of hatred and disappointment with Ryder’s memorialization. Zia waits for him, lips curled in a sneer and she shakes her head in knowing disgust. </p><p>“You’re selfish, Vidal.” </p><p>Like it explains everything. Which he supposes it does. </p><p>&gt;Where are you hiding?&lt; </p><p>&gt;It wouldn’t be a hiding spot if I told you.&lt;</p><p>Keema follows up the message with a call, one he doesn’t want to answer but does anyway, mostly to escape the terrible silence that allows that reporter’s voice, so impersonal, so matter of fact, to echo against his insides. </p><p>“Morda has called. She requests the Charlatan, wants to speak on the topic of Collective agents on Elaaden.”</p><p>Reyes touches the places where Ryder’s fingers once splayed and says simply, “We aren’t going to share undercover identities.”</p><p>“She wants her own contact. While the Paradise works hand in hand with the Krogan colony, she feels it’s… in her best interest to have the middle man be less inclined to their own pockets.” </p><p>“You let her talk about Annea in that way?” He asks mildly, finally standing, stretching out the coil of muscles in his back. </p><p>“The truth doesn’t always need to be avoided. Morda knows the Collective is securing resources outside of just Kadara. She’s forward looking, hoping to establish prices in exchange for inside information at her own discretion.”</p><p>“Do you have someone in mind?”</p><p>“This distracted pensive side of you has grown recently. Come, join Crux and I for a discussion.”</p><p>The uniform asks too much of him, too little stretched over a hundred faces when he wants to reveal just one. But the person who can look upon that Reyes Vidal is not here. He steps down out of his ship and says, “Only if we meet where I want to.”</p><p>Kian chortles, much amused, shoulders shaking and Thrasia smirks and insists over her glass, “It’s true. Didn’t they think to check if the damn thing was booby trapped? Knocked the guy so hard on his ass he couldn’t even get up to try to flee when my guards came running. Serves ‘em right though, trying to take my damn turbine parts again.”</p><p>“Build me a booby trap too, Thrasia. It’ll keep the drunk assholes from trying to get behind my bar every time I cut them off for the night.”</p><p>“Can you imagine the destruction that would ensue if I installed that in this tight space? You’d have complaints coming out your ass.”</p><p>“A man can dream!”</p><p>“Dream smaller.” She clips, lowering the glass as she sees something that catches her attention, “Vidal! Vidal.” Her call brings the man in close, away from the stairs, and she leans her chin onto her hand as if she could be one drink past business, “You’re a familiar face I’ve not seen around as often as I’d like.” Red from the lights behind the bar soften on her face, gentling to an almost pink but her attention is light, easy to bear. Here in the loud, shadowed Tartarus, smoothing the expression comes natural, far lower stakes than the critical sober eye in the base of a growing organization stepping into the political spheres of the universe. </p><p>Kian jabs a thumb at her, dramatically rolling his eyes, “She’s got such a heavy wallet, I can’t get her to leave. Buying me out of my most expensive bottles. I mean, great for business, but, shite, she outdrinks everyone she sits down with! I’ve had to have Zrel carry out three pirates tonight alone, drunk as piss.”</p><p>“Have a drink with me. I’ll even pay and you can make a sale.” The Turian says, pointedly ignoring Kian’s attempts to rile her up, “You’ve been absent from the smuggling scene. It’s been lonely.”</p><p>“I’m sure the competition is celebrating one less hand in the pot.” Reyes replies, and she laughs, “They sure are. But not without the questions! They’re dying to know what’s got the attention of Reyes Vidal so consumed he doesn’t have time to snatch the best deals out from under them.”</p><p>Nothing that would do him any good for them to know, Reyes thinks to himself, glancing to his own bottle on the shelf. It only glimmers too familiarly, all the right shades and he tears his eyes away. </p><p>“Well?” She hums, voice curling in an enticing manner that normally would have him sit down with her without issue. </p><p>“Another time.” He draws back, “I’m busy tonight.”</p><p>Kian and Thrasia exchange glances and she says, “Reyes Vidal refusing a prepaid drink? Now you’ve even got my curiosity piqued.”</p><p>Stepping backward, holding eye contact for as long as possible, he opens his hands, fitting the loose, off brand man who’s always a step ahead even when the bullets are chasing his heels, “Then you should invest in spying, I’ve heard it’s the new smuggling.” </p><p>Behind the door to his room, Crux sits tall, back straight with a glass of wine in her fingers looking rich and red and expertly elegant against everything that is Kian’s club. She is in a loose fit button up, white, with the top couple buttons folded down to reveal the gentle slope of her collar bone and a necklace. Keema sits beside her, another glass of wine in her hand, the folded scarf around her shoulders and neck a vibrant blue and pretty against the flowing material of her dress. </p><p>He expected them to be here before him, but his eyes find Lynx in the chair, the leather of a black jacket and tequila a surprise. She turns over her shoulder to him and says, “You’re late.”</p><p>“This is Vidal on time.” Keema replies, fondly watching him approach a chair left for him across the two women and he asks, “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Lynx rolls her eyes, fingerless gloves tapping on her glass she cups, “What, am I not a representative?”</p><p>He sits, the power of his position draping over him, the whiskey already poured and the pretty Angara candle settling the air, leaving it nicely perfumed, rich, easy for forming thoughts. </p><p>“You’ve never been interested in meetings.”</p><p>Casually she sits back, half shrugs to insist nonchalance, “Someone’s going to have to take over your title when you inevitably vanish.”</p><p>The jab brings him a little closer to the surface, away from his inner mazes and he says, “You’re going to have to be a little better at paperwork to be my successor. Your last report had four spelling mistakes. Not very spy leader of you.”</p><p>She scoffs, but her cheeks blush and she mutters, “Spend your time doing more important things than counting my spelling mistakes…”</p><p>“That’s why I tell you to proofread, Lynx.” Crux says gracefully behind her glass and Lynx snaps back, “Not you too.” </p><p>“It might be because she was watching Liam Kosta’s last interview on the Ditaeon’s completion. I could hear the jokes he was making twice over from the break room.” </p><p>Keema turns to Crux in interest and Reyes’ eyes glide over to Lynx without having to say anything. </p><p>She burns with the attention but holds her ground, “If I get the chance, I’m taking it. You won’t be laughing when I’ve got stories fit for the decade.” </p><p>It almost pulls a smile to Reyes’ lips and Crux leans back in her chair, pale eyes glittering fondly, “I didn’t think you’d ever say it.”</p><p>“Yeah, well,” Lynx considers her tequila, the heat of an exposed crush something for peaceful times, something coveted in many ways, something chased, “With the Pathfinder team going after the Archon, I realized we don’t always have a next time.” They too, leaders of a once rejected planet full of criminal intention, are just people pining for a place of comfort, a place to put down the titles and get kissed back to healthy dreams. And they joke about it, about how human they really are, and trust the other not to stab them with it. </p><p>Keema’s gaze touches Reyes but he holds still against a budding pain behind his eyes and lower back. He exposed his emotions in the shock of the Tempest’s announcement but he isn’t the sincere reformer who makes better of his affections like Lynx. He’ll drown in the suffering before he becomes forthright with his learned mistakes, the stakes pillars of his craft, his self, his kingdom. If love was an angel, he is Lucifer’s debasement and his poorly proved devotion justifies this hell is the temperature for him. </p><p>“How sweet.” Crux smiles gently and pinches at Lynx’s cheek which earns her a swat to the hand, “You’re a hundred years too early for that.” To admit the tender heart still beats beneath the hardened mutineer who shoots her far gone brothers and sisters takes effort and he amends Lynx’s ability to confide in them, especially himself. He would never. </p><p><em>”This is why you don’t have any friends.”</em> He squeezes his hand against the chair’s arm, lets the accusations grind his heart, <em>”You’re selfish, Vidal.”</em> Zia’s hateful sneer curls at the corners, all righteous in her piercing through his personas to the ugly center. The physical pressure sits in his chest, distracting him from even listening and for half a second, escape is all he can think about. </p><p>
  <em>”Reyes is a better man than you think.”</em>
</p><p>A breath, one full, fresh, and reviving. Ryder came to his defense all that time ago, saw something that evoked a steadfast avowal. His most recent nightmare floats back into the light, his own confession meant to be kept between himself and the Ryder in his soul demanding he own the feeling.</p><p>
  <em>“I wanted to be the man you saw in me. But I’m-“</em>
</p><p>He leans forward, catches his representatives’ attention and says, “Until Lynx gets that chance, Morda wants her own Collective representative out on Elaaden.” Despite his little tease, he has Lynx listening seriously, “What if we sent her a whole city?”</p><p>Xxx</p><p>Dead silence holds the marketplace, even the parts of the Port that never quiet, the dock, the machinery rumbling, the disrespectful prodding of unaffiliated men with nothing better to do but cause trouble, it is all hushed, waiting, watching. </p><p>Batus squints seriously from his position at the front of the ceremony, intense in his high rank and his assessment, the sun gleaming off his hard brow. Guards line the streets cleared for the funeral of Sloane Kelly, guns ready, trained in their walled expressions, the disciplined alert which will provide the snap of a consequence for anyone brave or foolish enough to try to halt the process. </p><p>Nexus cameras film from the respected positions given to them, insinuating the relationship is as transparent as it can possibly be, an easily suspected leniency that appears as telling as a window. They can look in, see how the Port works, are invited to the ceremonies, they can even buy from the marketplace, there is nothing restricting their movement. With the Outcast, to wear Initiative emblem raised the chance of getting shot exponentially and was a betrayal to their Port. Not all sellers promise fair price, but with Sloane Kelly no longer gouging their sales, Initiative colors are just the telltale sign of the Charlatan’s guests. This expertly placed window is just shy of revealing the door in the floor, and for that no means of film or reporting can pry apart Kadara’s ribcage without that opening. They only see what is meant to be seen. </p><p>There will be no one to grieve Sloane Kelly’s death, not even her lover, the Turian who held strong in the hurricane that was the woman’s fall from grace but across stars, hundreds of stars, a couple of Krogan will watch the ceremony and let it close a chapter in their lives that once spoke to a visceral fight of survival and endurance. </p><p>Keema stands with Batus and low drums, the drums of a warrior beat against the flooring of the marketplace. Starting at the feet, it travels the spine, the low, constant drumming that is just like a soldier’s march forward. Lynx’s men carry the container which has kept Sloane’s body frozen in time and Reyes, watching from the counter of Keema’s booth in his uniform, wants for a reason, any reason to leave. It’s too raw to see someone once celebrated, and hated viciously, once so vibrantly alive left for the piecing of memory and legacy, the shallow page of history she will now haunt the final place for her to find eternal rest with. No one will speak her name with confidence unless willing to hurt for it and those numbers are dwindling fast, leaving just the apathetic cold commentary of a narrative written without the person in question. </p><p>Soon she will be reduced to a one-dimensional blockade that once stood in the way of progress for the Initiative. Her fall to the next victor is only the dark promise ahead on Reyes’ path that the Charlatan will one day be next if he ever stumbles. He will become the manipulative criminal who pulled the Pathfinder down into his trenches and was spared the bullet for his cowardly games. Nothing positive will be said if he falls early to the Initiative’s growth and reestablishment and they will pounce on the Collective if he ever gives them chance. Immortalized as corruption, even his existence as ‘Reyes Vidal’ will not be a pretty memory for most. Only Ryder will gleam in gold when he is pressed into his spot in history. His face will go on statues, his uniform in museums, his words into digital textbooks. They’ll hide the controversies, smooth out his faults and clean up his record and they will erase his romance with the wretched man from Kadara who might’ve been the strongest reason their famed outpost lives to see this day. </p><p>It all weeps beneath the surface of a pinched brow in the sun and Reyes sighs to himself through his nose, thinking of anything to avoid listening to the somber beating of the drums. A pleasant white memory comes to mind, a nicely pressed uniform and clean gloves overtop scarred knuckles that made Ryder so distinct in the bustling marketplace when he came and sat on one of these very stools in front of his counter. The memory seems so bright, so vivid, and when he falls back into that day deep enough, Reyes can feel the phantom of their kiss in the shadow of the backroom. </p><p>A presence comes out of that backdoor, walking quietly to Reyes’ side and murmurs, “So far so good.”</p><p>Reyes crests the memory like swimming back to the surface to a bleak sky but doesn’t say anything. Radwan is a man of few words himself and he settles against the wall, folding his arms, little issue with watching the procession in silence. </p><p>The container is finally lowered carefully to four perched corners, the glass around Sloane’s face and upper body clear, revealing the care and consideration the Collective has shown an enemy. Keema tosses hot sands from a low bowl, crackling the container with the flecks while her priestess jingles a bell at each corner, walking the entirety of it once, then twice. Keema raises her hands, offering the finished bowl to the skies and then hands it off, and the drums finally stop. </p><p>“Today we recognize the memory of one of Kadara’s most infamous Milky Way travelers. Sloane Kelly pushed back the Kett when the Angara of the Port no longer had the strength to fight what seemed like the daunting fate of so many other battles. She put her life on the line, out in the badlands and persisted through the death rain, the bloodthirsty wildlife and lit fire beneath our cold bowls of sand. She is not innocent of the torture suffering causes the heart but she is not to be suddenly tossed aside because we have lived past the need for that kind of ruthlessness. We acknowledge Kadara would have been lost without her and pray for a deep rest until her soul moves to its next calling.” Keema puts her hand to the cool glass, and many Angara in the crowds take each other’s hands and close their eyes. </p><p>“For the Port’s first warrior and the valiant efforts of reviving Kadara, we send Sloane Kelly her body.” She switches on the container, a warm buzz coming to life. Hot red sparks bite into flames, powerful, intense with the enclosed space and soon the entire container is just the blaze of heat, silent in its containment. Sloane stepped into Andromeda in fire and she will leave in fire, the cycle making a full circle. </p><p>Reyes checks for news, finally free of obligation, but all that invites the quick peruse is the report of Ditaeon’s first successful shuttle making it to the Nexus. Frustration bites, canines going deep and he kicks over a large crate, violently, noisily, Radwan watching. </p><p>“We’ve marked the coordinates to the Loyalist base?”</p><p>Radwan stretches his arms, muscles going taut, pulling flesh nicely, “We have.” He reads the intention, pauses, “I thought you wanted to wait and see their movement until after the funeral gets archived digitally.”</p><p>The Charlatan steps through the backdoor, “I changed my mind.” </p><p>Locking the armor into place, Reyes pulls on a helmet, visor coming alive with the immediate connection to his suit. He clicks knife concealers into place on his forearms with other Collective soldiers moving around in the underground briefing room as they wait on orders. One shoulder slams his own, sending him a step and a low, gruff voice laughs.</p><p>“Sorry, <em>Shena</em>, didn’t see you there.” The barrel-chested man half grins, half sneers, “We aren’t going for a drink, are you sure you’re supposed to be here? You’re usually on your knees, earning that nickname at this hour.” He’s got a heavy jawline, peach fuzz and light hairs of a beard that will never grow in following up into his loose dirty blond hair. The red of his armor shows wear, signs of the many field jobs he’s been on, his ‘badges of honor.’ They’ve never gotten along and won’t start now. </p><p>Reyes turns more fully to him, and his silence to Luther implies a lack of witty comeback so he continues, “Did you get the wrong orders? The Charlatan made a mistake, they meant to give us Aquila but we got saddled with Umi’s least favorite tab holder.” A couple of men listening laugh, and one says, “We won’t think anything less of you if you run away now, Vidal! Your reputation’s already on the floor!”</p><p> Luther stumbles with the grip curling tight in the vulnerable spot just above the low line of his chest plate and into his under suit and awkwardly he bends to Reyes’ eye level, the pistol kissing his rapid pulse just beneath the jaw. </p><p>“Oh shit!” One man hisses in the back. Silence snaps the noise thin, all eyes on them. </p><p>“Tell me again who isn’t supposed to be here.” Reyes says low, pressing the gun into flesh, the white of Luther’s eyes growing. </p><p>“C-c’mon, what the fuck, we were just joking. Damn, do you care about getting to kill Loyalists that much?”</p><p>Reyes, with all his discipline, realigns his emotions to his purpose and cools down. These words are supposed to run off his back, the man with the golden tongue and not a care in the world, but all he is right now is a lit fuse to his own anger. Begrudgingly, he lets Luther go, holstering his weapon and turns, “I don’t.” </p><p>Luther checks his throat by instinct, and they all leave Reyes alone as Batus steps into the room, calls them to attention and confirms each unit for their vehicles. </p><p>The ride is in the low burn of dusk, a sullen time in the hills of the badlands, the light already vanished from the low crevices between the mountains, the peaks of those very points keeping sunlight all to themselves. Yakshi has gone from recruiting at the wind farm to their own base, a shallow but hidden cave near Spirit’s Ledge where, if they aren’t ambushing weaker transports, they are making contact with easily swayed pirates. Loyalists, with their like-minded goal of slamming the Nexus, crippling the Initiative, all gather in this cave, those who are left from their failed strike at least. </p><p>Scouts report movement around the entrance, a couple of huntress guards casually inspecting the overlooking hills on their area. They’re a minimal defense, most likely inside watching and reviewing Sloane Kelly’s ceremony to the afterlife. Ambush starts with quick expertly timed shots that folds two bodies and leaves a small window for the vehicles to race inside the cave. It’s smooth, well-trained, and efficient. It’s been honed and it’s far from the times of their scavenging, when even the Charlatan’s word couldn’t stop the opportunistic hunger lead factions of agents in their own directions. </p><p>Screeching to a halt, they all jump out, formation holding in the dull light of the heat lanterns. Batus gives one clear command, “Capture the leader of Yakshi, Elora!” </p><p>Men call out to each other deeper in the cave, but they’re unprepared and the sweeping force of Batus’ army comes on harsh, the heat blast after an explosion. Gun fire lights up the dull rooms, the lounging areas mirroring times before the push back of the Kett, minimal, drab, dirty, and full of pirates. </p><p>Reyes follows, gun drawn, the cave walls looming indistinctly in the shadows. He hears the enemy before he sees him, the descent out of a dark corner, and he lifts his aim, puts a bullet between the man’s eyes with the grip of adrenaline feeding his trained skill. It’s quick, but draws the attention of several other cornered ex-Outcasts with their shotguns and that has Reyes ducking behind a crate of supplies half used. </p><p>“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” One man croons, “You asked for this fight,” His voice snarls, lifting in noise as he whirls around the corner, knowing well where Reyes is but at the next word it folds into a gargle, Reyes’ unconcealed knife gouging deep into his throat. Ripping it free, the man throwing a wild hand to the wound, Reyes stabs again, precision finding a space between his ribs and then he rips the shotgun free of his hands and rounds the corner. </p><p>The blast knocks the other Loyalist off his feet, blood messily splattering the cave walls. Reloading, he crouches, following the behind of a parked vehicle, breathing, letting aggression surface and flood out in a place where consequences go to die. The next blast throws a gun against the wall with a crack, the man letting out a startled and honest cry to his bloody hands and Reyes proceeds to hit him point blank with another shot. The deeper into the cave, the more supplies and collected nesting lines the walls, but besides the men painting the walls with red, there is no sign of Yakshi’s leader. </p><p>Batus’ orders ring through their comms, “Sweep the whole base! Not one Loyalist left alive!”</p><p>The empty shotgun tossed aside, Reyes takes a second to glance across the makeshift rooms from low positioned tarps and sleeping bags, a moment alone with the bodies before he jerks tightly with the crook of an elbow wrapping around his throat. Instinct has his hands flying to the strong forearm cutting off the air and a mouth snarls next to his head, “Hello Collective! Get comfortable! You’ll be staying!”</p><p>Legs kicking at shins, Reyes tenses at the raw strength and he lets the man arch his back, the sharp scent of gun powder and chemicals leaking through his helmet. His knife pierces flesh, the upper thigh and the Loyalist releases Reyes, putting distance between them. Grin stretching, eyes going hard, he invites the brutality of a fight and says, “Your neck will be easier to snap than the Kett’s.” He doesn’t seem to mind the blood quickly staining his pants, stance lowering. </p><p>“Another fly buzzing around a dead queen doesn’t scare me.” Reyes returns, cutting the air with a sweep of his arm, the man barely missing a long gash across his front. The Loyalist’s hands reach out, fingers splayed to grab, missing for Reyes ducking, grunting when a fist slams his stomach. He stumbles back a few steps, goes to grab the next punch but only catches the knife through his palm, and Reyes lets the shock confuse the man so he can headbutt him and drop him off his feet. </p><p>His knee comes up, whipping his head back, and when he collapses, hand still drawn through with Reyes’ knife, he hardly has his wits about him when the gun presses to his skull. Reyes pulls the trigger, yanking his knife free and turns toward the deeper parts of the cave. The blur of an attacker smears his visor. </p><p>The Asari huntress grapples with him, gripping hands to hands and he whirls them, spinning on his heel, slamming her into the wall and pinning her. She snarls and says, “Who led you here?”   </p><p>If he were in a better state, was a more tactful version of himself might’ve answered her. But a more tactful Reyes Vidal wouldn’t be risking his life out in the badlands for a chance to absolve trauma that he can do nothing but carry forward with him otherwise. His bullet leaves her just a weight against the cold rock and while the tension, the tightness of nerves, the risk revealing reward in life all does wonders for the dark emotions, the anger, the disappointment, a funnel to a too full cup, it doesn’t even remotely cater to his conscience. </p><p>What a time to develop one. </p><p>The next bullet is from afar, catching a leg, crippling a running enemy, and he merely shoots her as he passes, chilled beneath the surface, breathing. Batus is ahead, the bodies fallen around all lost causes. In the light of his armor, the flashlight gleaming, Reyes sees Elora glowering at the Turian’s feet, arms tied and dark circles prominent. They were attempting to escape to a bunker beneath the cave, her and her second, Yuri, but missed the opportunity by mere seconds.  </p><p>Batus nods to him briefly, glancing back to other soldiers drawing closer so Reyes minds his distance. </p><p>“Good work, Collective.” The Turian calls into the caves, earning the attention of his agents, “The Loyalists will have trouble regrouping what few are left now. Yakshi leader Elora is officially a prisoner of war. Let’s head back to the base, drinks are on me.”</p><p>Xxx</p><p>Batus sits next to him, the winds heavy, and the outpost just in the distance, far enough the noise is barely audible but visible in all ways important for someone guarding it. </p><p>“You’re not usually out in the field this much.”</p><p>Reyes has never been so seen with such little intention to provide a performance and he might have Ryder to thank for it all, the first to see an entire man beneath the easy labels and rumors. He never thought with all the illusions irrelevant to his real person he would become so intertwined with the Collective and the Charlatan, so necessary and still, like the beginning of it all, so invisible, only relevant to those willing to look. </p><p>Yet he has so many eyes watching, and not because they want him to fall. </p><p>“I made a promise.” He says, because whiskey should make him at least a bit more honest, for the amber glistening in the drink that says it’s all he has of a lover who guarded the hopeful part of him that believed he could foster a better future for all the exiles like himself. </p><p>Batus sweeps over the scenery again, that serious squint back in his expression and he takes the flask with a gracious nod, drinking. “You know, I said drinks were on me.”</p><p>Reyes glances to the flask knowingly. </p><p>Frowning slightly, Batus looks at the flask, sees his own initials and says with an uncharacteristic surprise, “Hey! When did you grab this?”</p><p>A thin curve of a smirk is all he receives as an answer, and Batus sighs, taking a fuller swig, “Bet you took it just to see when I’d notice.”</p><p>“You’ve got good taste, although you shouldn’t leave it unattended in your vehicle.” </p><p>“Nobody but you would be ballsy enough to steal from me.”</p><p>“I ‘borrowed’ it.” </p><p>Batus snorts and passes it back. They look at the glory of their reconciliation with the Initiative, the few parked Collective vehicles side by side with the blue and white, the rapidly cooling skies still streaking with ships, no longer so lonely and uncertain. A road is being mapped out, a path between the Port and Ditaeon, dusty still, only the tire tracks of consistent travel. </p><p>Sighing, breathing in the air, the crisp taste of oncoming night, the Turian goes to stand, not one to linger. He adjusts his prosthetic, and says, “Refill that when you see me next.” Then he begins the walk back down to the outpost, the allotted time for reflection for a soldier, a journey needed to be made and a solitude gentle, chosen. Reyes watches his form get smaller and smaller, wonders about the makings of man, the devotion to causes that makes it worth living day to day in the dirt for the possibilities still sky high, out of reach. Does Batus see himself in the Charlatan or a future in the Collective or are they all just agreeing doom is inevitable for the man cast out as guilty? </p><p>Purple overcomes the blueless white of the fading day and Reyes looks up into the first twinkle of a star. It flickers back like a greeting and in it holds a special gift from the universe. His omni-tool pings. </p><p>THE SALARIAN ARK, PAARCHERO AND THE SALARIAN PATHFINDER, ZEVIN RAEKA HAVE RETURNED TO THE NEXUS AFTER MONTHS OF SUSPENSE</p><p>Heart caught in wire, Reyes scans, flips through the channels, stomach floating in his body like it’s come out of gravity. The same line, the Paarchero greatly damage and the relief in the number of unharmed Salarians, Raeka and all her glory, the desperate race to safety. He scrolls, scanning through all the headlines, the oncoming press conferences, Keri’s first written word, and finally it jumps to the top of the screen. </p><p>THE TEMPEST DOCKS AT NEXUS, PATHFINDERS RIX, VEDERIA AND RYDER RETURNING FROM CLOSE CALL WITH ARCHON</p><p>His eyes read the name over and over, Ryder, Ryder, Ryder. He lets the breath go, suddenly cold in the night air, the darkness having swept in when he wasn’t paying attention. Even his own headlines don’t catch the eye, the Collective’s valiant defense of Ditaeon and Tate’s good word as he waits for the refresh. Reyes stands, takes a big swig, lets it burn hot and breathes. Nothing can snatch the relief away from him, not even their fall out. He reads it again, confirms the image of the Tempest and closes his omni-tool. </p><p>Then he begins his walk back to the outpost, a knowing strength in his step. </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t find out right away. For once, the Pathfinder team manages to keep a secret, flipping roles with Andromeda, protecting the darkness rather than chasing it out. </p><p>All the pictures, the videos show a distance, not an unexpected one, but as the time passes, it begins to settle strangely. Pathfinder Ryder is absent from the conferences, and Avitus takes his place at the forefront of describing their first plan of attack to save the Paarchero alongside Raeka who proudly declares their escape and her survival all thanks to Ryder’s bravery. It is not the happiest of celebrations; Salarian torture, the grim realities of the Angara’s suffering have gripped the Paarchero and even the famous Nakmor Krogan Scouts, an elite team once lost and mourned, like a twisted game of hide and seek, have been discovered in the worst way.  </p><p>Video of the Behemoths, morphed half exalted Krogans with blood rage forever burning in their eyes are all that’s left of the Scouts once so prided and trusted. Nakmor Drack has stepped off the Tempest, answering to nothing but his own need for privacy and Kesh takes time away from her desk to join him. Sorrow, deep rooted pain creeps into the cracks, threatening the already unstable situation between Director Tann and the Krogan. </p><p>The Director is flush with happiness, the return of the Salarian ark all he’s chased and to have their Pathfinder back, alive, victorious, is everything he’s been kept awake about, fought entire politics decisions for. Raeka promises to use her second chance as meaningful as possible, promises her life will not go without direct cause towards those lost and for her grace and resolute eyes, the damage done behind closed doors is not disastrous. </p><p>Nothing but the press catch the shoulder of Ryder in the housing complexes, the darkness in a blurred angle, is that a black eye? The protected smear of white blond hair and Ryder’s distinct white uniform in the medical unit, a brief picture of a hooded person making his way through security, but otherwise, there’s not one word from the human Pathfinder. </p><p>Rumor of betrayal amongst the Salarians rears its head as the pieces are put together, a critical decision made in the heat of the moment that caused rampant destruction and aligns with the way the ship fell into the Archon’s clutches. Raeka pledges to find the truth, although some say Salarians investigating Salarians will only cater to a certain angle of reality.  So in the heat of investigation, the Tempest stays at the Nexus for a couple more weeks, feeding intel, providing the necessary support in case the Archon decides to pursue the Paarchero or the Salarian Pathfinder needs the endorsement in her choice of direction. But still something is waiting beneath the surface, and it won’t lay dormant forever. </p><p>The Nexus claims great victory on the Pathfinders’ ability to seize data off the Archon’s ship, a Remnant artifact that opens up into a map. Whisper of Meridian leaks through the channels, the golden realm of everything possible in Heleus and it brings the rats out of the sewers, talk of a certain Salarian doctor who claims only to be studying Kett and that is why he’s been out in the field ever since the discovery of the Paarchero. He’s found a safe haven in the slums of Kadara though and talks about how the Kett have the answer, if they’re willing to pay for it. </p><p>These days are easy to bear, the ones of knowing, and like a flower in the desert, altruism blooms from love. If the man’s alive, then he’ll embrace anything, even if it’s nothing between them. </p><p>The Tempest flies off, requests in Voeld, the land of ice and war calling the hero to fight on their front lines. Reyes watches, always, as he coordinates training, military grade tests, and puts Batus in charge of making sure even the matured recruits know the weight of a bullet when they put on a Collective uniform. Lynx flies out to Elaaden to meet Morda. </p><p>At first the ominous sense of a teetering situation could’ve been just the residual damage of nerves strung so tight from waiting for news but when the Tempest lands and team Pathfinder debarks out alongside the Resistance to fight the remaining forces of Kett on their planet, Reyes realizes it isn’t. </p><p>The battle in the snow is not one coupled alongside the blazing ferocity of a blizzard so vicious they would not survive an hour’s time outside but it is against a wave of victory thirsty aliens with no issue stepping over the dead for their own chance. Bullets ring off shields and makeshift covers, Angara ordering others into safety as the Kett flood down the mountain, the rumbling pounding of Fiends blowing up white behind them like avalanches. </p><p>Team Pathfinder is crouched, Vetra and Cora and Ryder who hasn’t said a word since they landed. He leaps over the cover, Cora jerking, “Ryder!” </p><p>She watches, rifle in hand as he jets forward, gunning through several Kett soldiers with ease, until he slides onto his hip, gliding in the snow and disappears underneath the underside of a Fiend. His second in command doesn’t have the leniency to follow, immediately needing to offer support to several Resistance soldiers overrun by Anointed plasma cannons ripping through their shields. </p><p>She calls for Vetra’s assistance, who manages to scope out several approaching Kett through the flurries drifting down out of a cold grey sky. The Fiend pounds the ground, slamming deep into the snow, sweeping mounds around and still there’s no sign of the Pathfinder. It shouts out, blood spraying suddenly into the snow, dying everything a murky black green. Red light faintly glows from its chest, an expansion growing, growing until it bursts and Ryder rises out of the guts with his omni-blade, forcing the heavy body off his shoulders. His stance doesn’t reveal whether the act of taking out the exalted beast took its toll on his energy and he immediately puts a foot back to boost a sprint, gutting and then beheading a Kett soldier with one fluid uppercut. </p><p>His armor still steaming with Fiend blood, Ryder whirls tackling a Destined soldier into the cloud of his own cloaking smoke, vanishing except for the splurting blood that gleams with Ryder’s fists. He rises off his knees, loading his shotgun, destabilizing an Anointed, knocking him back off his steady weight and turning the plasma cannon off for a brief second, one long enough for the Pathfinder to rush the heavy set enemy and glide beneath his legs, crawl up his backside and stick his blade right in the crook of his chest plate and throat, his free arm squeezing and twisting to rip the head right off. </p><p>It’s visceral, it’s vicious, lacking team work and communication, dependent only on one thing, Ryder pushing the limits. He steps off the Anointed’s dead body, jumping up onto a vehicle used to transport the enemy and takes a leap off the edge to pound a heavy fist into a Chosen Kett, shattering his bones and breaking him to the ground. There aren’t any seconds left to hesitation, Ryder’s outstretched hands grabbing the gun pointed at him over his shoulder, unconcerned about the possibility of a bullet cutting through his armor, and forces it with his sheer strength to the Kett’s chin and makes the soldier pull the trigger on himself. Tearing it free, he slams the butt into another face, ducking and sticking his omni-blade in the lower regions of the Kett’s torso and dragging it up, making it stare him down as he rips it clean in half on the insides. </p><p>Welcoming the next wave, he literally punches through Kett armor, grenade lodging in the enemy’s organs, leaving him a time bomb for his brothers, blowing off limbs, splattering Ryder’s visor. He sways, drops to a knee, the snow sinking beneath his weight. </p><p>“Ryder!” Cora calls him, “Let’s regroup!” </p><p>Breathing, Ryder acts as if he can’t hear anything, nothing but the world around him and for a brief moment, it looks as if he doesn’t even realize he’s in the middle of a battlefield, gunfire bursting off his shields and enemies all around as he crouches in the snow. </p><p>“Ryder!” Cora demands, lifting a soldier off his feet so Vetra can snipe him dead. </p><p>He stands, yanking a severed hand off a rifle, takes a few rocking steps and then runs into the thick of the enemies, spraying bullets into a Fiend’s face so he can take advantage of its distraction. He elbows a Kett, slamming a fist into its face, letting bullets graze him as he uses the folded enemy to propel himself up onto the Fiend’s back. His thighs hold him steady as he leans into the fanged mouth, the roaring maw of tamed evil and forces his hand up into its throat, holding steady to its horns, unafraid of the razor sharp teeth close to shredding his skin. Flipping off, landing heavily in the snow, the Fiend swivels to turn belatedly closing its mouth to the grenade slamming its organs right out of his stomach. It heaves, blood rushing out and for a brief moment, from Cora and Vetra’s position, their Pathfinder is out of sight.</p><p>“He isn’t responding.” Vetra says seriously, “It was too early for this. We should’ve let Avitus answer this call.”</p><p>Cora’s hard sigh on the other end is audible but she only calls again, “Ryder! Pathfinder!”</p><p>A shotgun blasts catches their attention, Ryder gripping a Kett by its throat, lifting the heavy, boney body up as he lines the shotgun with where its heart might be. The scattered bodies and limbs across the snow around Ryder is only growing, his fearlessness, his brutality giving way to an unstoppable soldier determined to smother a faction of enemies. He tosses the Kett back into the snow, arms flailing and collapses to a knee, hands going deep in white. </p><p>“Ryder..! Stop! Come back!” Cora leaps over the next barricade, ducking a line of plasma. Finally, she commands, “SAM!” </p><p>“Yes, Lieutenant.”</p><p>“Stop enhancing Ryder until we get him back to the Tempest.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, that won’t be possible. The Pathfinder is the only one able to manage the enhancements and he has locked the command with a code word.”</p><p>“God dammit!” She hisses, yanking her pistol out and shooting several aggressive shots at the Kett waiting around the banks of snow. One good angle manages to headshot the Anointed and they struggle forward through the white, Ryder back on his feet, stabbing the brains out of enemies, decapitating them with heavy armed swings. Anger is obvious in each connection, a raw, personal anger, like he’s been greatly wronged and can’t wolf down enough revenge. </p><p>When the Kett are merely the remains of a fight, the bloody splatter in the world of white and ice blue, Cora and Vetra manage to get close to their leader up the slope, rocking through the knee deep snow and the increasing winds. Ryder’s on his knees, hands and armor covered in blood, smeared green and browns on white. From afar, it is a haunting image, the slumped body of their highest and most cherished hero surrounded by the defeated, not a glimmer of glory to be found in the clear victory. Only a humbling, somber desolation.</p><p> Crouching next to Ryder, Cora gently unlocks his helmet and pulls it free, his hair still damp with sweat and his cheeks stained with tears. </p><p>Softly, she wipes a falling tear and murmurs, “Oh, Ryder..” </p><p>They call in the Nomad, Liam driving and save the efforts of making the trip back by foot. </p><p>Reyes doesn’t have the right. He doesn’t have the right to call, or contact them. Was specifically told not to. But he won’t watch another terrible, self-destructive fight like that and sit by idly in the whimsical ideal of what others expect from him. The omni-tool bleeps, and then comes online with the call. He waits with baited breath, hoping maybe the gift is back with its owner. </p><p>“Vidal.” Vetra answers, a tint of surprise hinting at his unexpected contact, not who he thought might and they take a moment appraising the other. </p><p>“You took the omni-tool?” He finally asks. </p><p>“I saved it from Cora’s wrath.” She corrects politely. </p><p>“It’s been off all this time.”</p><p>“We didn’t want anything interrupting our stealth mission, including lines to outside sources. But now that everything’s opened back up, I thought it a wasted opportunity not to take advantage of this piece of tech.”</p><p>Her words don’t insist any harsh contempt for his person, but she’s less inclined to follow her heart right into the emotion than Cora Harper. This is the Vetra Nyx who’s mastered the black market chain of people, levelled with those so opposite to herself it looks black and white. She knows how to feign acceptance.  </p><p>She offers with a mild curl to her words, “A connection to the Charlatan can’t be all bad. I’ve still got a business to run. Although I have to admit, I’ve taken apart your work, deactivated a few unnecessary parts.”</p><p>“Well, this is a personal call.” He clarifies, the emotions still sitting right atop his heart, ready to burst through, ready to say more than he's ever said. The craft he perfected for Ryder is less important, although their personal files do take a back burner to his focus. </p><p>“Not the mighty Charlatan pouncing on the opportune? I thought you more on top the intel and while not the most sincere by a long shot, at least subtle. Weren’t you waiting for this omni-tool to feed you something of interest?”</p><p>Frustration wells up and he says sharply, “This is about Ryder.”</p><p>“Is it now? I’ve checked how many times someone’s tried to access this tool and they’ve all been from Kadara. You’re not the only one who can track signals.”</p><p>“I admit it was me, I have no issue with that.”</p><p>“It’s the least of the things you could take responsibility for.” </p><p>He didn’t call to argue the details of his wrong doings, but if he can avoid it another day longer, he’ll say anything. “If we want to discuss my dishonorable actions, we’ll be here longer than you and I both have time for. My unclean record isn’t anything new.”</p><p>“Just your mockery of our leader.”</p><p>That coils deep and he holds it there, letting it sink in, “It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”</p><p>“What was it supposed to be like? You sleep with the Pathfinder, get your roads lined with gold and no one is the wiser when you’re finished using him? You’re lucky Cora didn’t shoot you when she had the chance.”</p><p>“The Pathfinder and Ryder are-“</p><p>“The same person, Vidal. You can’t tell me you seriously believe he can just separate work and personal with a job like this. And he defended you, and everyone on Kadara.” She sighs slightly and says, “Look, we know the Collective has taken extreme precautions against active threat on Ditaeon and you were a huge part of the reason we caught Spender in his own web. But there’s no way anyone on the Tempest can trust you.”</p><p>“I’m not calling for the Collective.” He insists, and she breathes a chuckle, just as smart, “You’ve already tried that card, Vidal. You can’t separate the Pathfinder and Ryder and we certainly can’t separate you from the Collective.”</p><p>He relents, knowing well he’s only proven that fact himself, and changes his tactic, finds the honest words are easier, “He isn’t coping, he’s falling apart. Voeld is proof of that. Whatever happened-”</p><p>“You’re partially to blame.”</p><p>The hurt sweeps underneath his stomach, pitting his entirety and he leans a hand against his desk, pressing the other against his forehead to smooth away a faint, growing ache. </p><p>“Did you think he was going to be able to carry the entire relationship the whole time and the Initiative with it?”</p><p>“Let me talk to him.”</p><p>“I.." She hesitates, and it's a long hesitation for Vetra Nyx, who always has a word to say. Finally she admits, "He’s in the med bay. Vidal," A sudden and not unnoticed change in direction, "We can coexist, I’m proof of that, but you’re pushing the boundaries that were drawn for good reason.”</p><p>“I’m going to push, because dammit, he’s killing himself! Anyone can see that!” </p><p>Vetra falls into silence, a long beating one that reverberates with every pounding slam of his heart. His promises are beginning to demand he answer them, the one he made to himself when he revealed his traitorous ways in the Moonyard at the fear of Ryder never walking out of there alive. </p><p>“Alright, Reyes.” She says gently, “There’s reason for a Pathfinder to be back on Kadara for the Paarchero’s investigation into its own ranks. They’re saying to send Raeka but I’ll.. I’ll insist we go ourselves. The team wanted a breather before we..” Her words fall away, and he hears that roaring wave coming at his shores, the ones that just learned peace after the Pathfinder vanished for so long. </p><p>“Before you what?” </p><p>“We’re following the Remnant map to Meridian.” </p><p>“When?”</p><p>“After the investigation finishes. The ranks will be closed up, confirmed by then and the Salarians will have trust in their Pathfinder enough to go to war.”</p><p>He grips the desk, gutted of breath, closing his eyes to hear once again, a soldier’s duty is nothing but sacrifice. </p><p>“You were going to find out either way. But you were someone important to Ryder so I’m telling you.”</p><p>“They can’t send him to Meridian like this.” Reyes says futilely, <em>he’ll die.</em> </p><p>“We’re trying to pull our team back together. Who’s going to go otherwise? The Archon is promising mass exaltation and Ryder's the only one able to interface with the Remnant.”</p><p>When did the stakes become so drastic? The months of wondering about the man in the cadet photos seem so far off, so foreign now. All he wants is to make sure Ryder will survive. He wants for a bargaining chip, something to tip the scales back into his reach, “Alright, I’ll make a deal with you. Something that will satisfy the indecision. I’ll bring you this traitor from the Paarchero, and deliver them to the Tempest team.”</p><p>“I don’t doubt you can find them, but-“</p><p>“Just fly back down to Kadara. Bring Ryder.” </p><p>“You sound desperate, Reyes.”</p><p>I am desperate, he agrees, but he lets the deal sit, stiff and like a final thread to a heavy weight. Lynx's words make sense to him, the willingness to be exposed to the critique, if the opportunity of a chance comes forth through it all.</p><p>“It isn’t my call, but I’ll lay it out on the table. I’m not guaranteeing anything, Reyes. You’ll have to deliver something before it even looks remotely like a deal the Tempest will be able to accept.” </p><p>“I know.” He agrees and hangs up before she can pull the arrangement back, and opens a line to Crux. </p><p>“I need your help.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Hallow Idol</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>With the outpost cleared, what is a Pathfinder supposed to do other than respond to other callings? Ryder has no choice but to accept silence as an answer.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's taken a bit longer than I anticipated but I had to decide about how I wanted to portray a couple big scenes! Decided again to just be self indulgent! Haha! </p><p>We're going back in time! And we're changing perspectives for now! (: Some montages to conversations I enjoy in game and as usual a bit of alterations to plot points. Next chapter we meet the Archon (((: Thanks for all the support!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s blind walking through the market. His legs are taking him somewhere, away from where he was, but it’s all muscle memory. He bumps into someone, just takes the jerk in stride, keeps walking, wanting to run but a distinct layer of his discipline keeps his form to a steady walk. Noise tightens around, smothering, bringing a distracted pinch to his brow, and he thanks the low lip of his cap keeping his expression half hidden, even the smear of light from the sky too much. For most of the market, into the docks, he beelines toward the Tempest until finally he realizes someone’s been calling his name and they whirl him around by his shoulder. </p><p>The hand pulls back, hot, intense and Ryder meets Cora’s stare. </p><p>It all rushes back, the impact of a meteor to the cracking, vulnerable upper surface of a moon and he turns to go again, hurting, ripping his stomach open and he almost folds down in the docks, resisting the numbing in his knees telling him his body is quickly checking out.</p><p>Cora’s brow pinches, she searches for the words, almost even looks apologetic, and says finally, “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”</p><p>An alarm rings across the docks calling attention, men and women running past them, Dalton’s voice rising out of the chaos. Red lights fly on, swirling across their faces, turning the passion of anger, pain and frustration into a physical element to their situation. Ryder’s eyes narrow on her, incredulously staring her down. He’s kept a tight lid, so tight, that she doesn’t know what the real final straw with him is but she seems to have found it. Clenching her hand tight beside her, she tries to survive the discomfort. </p><p>“You think I didn’t know who he was? I didn’t ask you to come to my defense and I certainly didn’t want you to do it like that.” </p><p>She stings like a slap and it rekindles a very specific justified fire, “I’m protecting you from you apparently!” </p><p>“I didn’t ask!” He snaps, uncharacteristically letting the bite through his words, “As if the Initiative doesn’t have a contract for everything else in my life? You want to take this from me? The one thing that was mine? Completely and undeniably mine?” He rips off his hat, throws it down to the dirty metal flooring, “Let’s strip the Pathfinder down then, and see who’s really underneath this uniform.” He begins tearing off his jacket and Cora, snatching up the hat, glancing around at the lucky distraction keeping eyes off them, hisses, “Ryder, stop that!” She quickly grabs the jacket from him and he glowers. </p><p>“What’s the problem? Did you want to have this argument in private? You didn’t give me that consideration though.” He stands in his white undershirt and slacks, and Cora throws a hand to his image, “You think I want you to discard your uniform? No, if you’re going to take something off, why don’t you get rid of that third party on your arm? Or are you trying to conveniently forget that Knight exposed him for spying and infiltrating lines?”</p><p>His eyelashes go dark as he narrows his eyes and she continues on, “I can’t believe you’ve kept it on this long, knowing he built that just for surveillance but I guess we’re picking and choosing where we draw our lines now. Yours is let the leader of a mutineer military force listen in to every lasting detail as long as he doesn’t shoot down our ships when they land on his planet. Or better yet, if he takes you out for the night-” He meets her rise and rips it off, tossing it to her and indicates the win to her aggressively, “Fine, I know you didn’t have to pull your gun on me to get it but I’m sure it’s going to good use for your ego.”</p><p>Drawing away ever so, she both shows injury and that she is searching for reason for insufficiency in their usual like mindedness. Voice going imploring in a tone only someone strong, terribly strong and unyielding can find, she explains like she doesn’t understand how Ryder can’t see what she sees, “He’s a criminal, and a good one at that. Does a guilty man stay quiet in the face of accusations? I just spoke the language he’s used to.” She’s asking him when things changed, when they became so distanced about such a critical topic. </p><p>Ryder’s shoulders tense, muscles pulling tight and he mutters venomously, “As long as the Initiative’s protected, it doesn’t matter who we gun through, huh? You don’t even see him as a person.” </p><p>“You want me to treat the Charlatan like an average man?” </p><p>“If you can do it for your Pathfinder-“</p><p>“You and him are nothing alike-“</p><p>Ryder’s sharp, harsh laughter cuts her off, “Nothing alike? The Initiative propaganda is doing its job. I’m just like the Charlatan, Cora. I just happen to be seen as the ‘good guy.’ But I still kill people and smother uprisings for our military. They can dress me up however they like, but they’ll still put a gun in my hand and tell me to quiet voices that go against their politics. At least here the transparency can be bargained for.”</p><p>“He’s the least transparent person we’ve encountered yet!” </p><p>“To you!” He throws back, “What could he tell you, you’ve had your finger on the trigger since we first arrived! Some people don’t have the liberty to air their vulnerabilities to the world. He’s taken up for me and the Initiative’s order despite it going against everything the exiles rejected when they left the Nexus. Does that not speak to the hope you’ve always worked for? It’s not military grade, it’s got flaws, but so does our entire mission! Just because you have the Initiative on a pedestal doesn’t justify its every decision. Reyes was right about <em>that</em>, and still yet he’s looking for the middle ground. I want that! We could have a proper ceasefire-”</p><p>Her facials go harsh, searing, “You want whatever he’s offering you. You want him, and you’re willing to put it all on the wager he’ll develop some morals. There isn’t a middle ground, he’s trying to pull you into his mind games. He’ll undermine everything we’ve worked to reestablish and you’re going to let him. You’re acting like he’s somehow convinced you how he handled his negotiations was appropriate. And since when did you think of the Initiative like that? The biggest provider to the black market isn’t looking for a <em>proper</em> anything, Ryder.”</p><p>Ryder’s cheeks pinken, himself a guilty man of a crime of affection. He holds his tongue, enduring the criticism and the lack of comeback indicating the truth sits poorly with his second in command who thought for the longest time they were a completed entity that made the Tempest so powerful, so righteous and so <em>honest</em> in all the ways that made her embrace their statuses as heroes. </p><p>“See? Even you can’t argue his methods aren’t questionable. You’re blind with-“ She realizes what they’re about to touch on, finds herself growing even angrier, “Blind with- I don’t even want to say it. How could you?” Instead she accuses him, thinking Reyes Vidal unworthy of claiming Ryder’s favor. </p><p> In response, his cheeks flame out, “You’re asking me that like I’m doing this on purpose? I didn’t set out to come down to Kadara and fall in love with a contact I knew nothing about.” He indicates to himself with both hands, “You think I don’t realize where this forces me? What kind of danger I put both me and him in every time I get close? I know you’re disappointed I can’t be the perfect soldier, the perfect leader, I know you can see my faults, where I could be ironed out and fixed but I’m just a man! This is my limit! It just happened, I’m-” He bites the apology, holding it back and for a moment they just stare at each other.</p><p>Her eyes flash like a splash of water and she tightens her hold on his jacket. “Don’t you dare. Not after we’ve come this far. Don’t you say you’re-”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” He gets out, hurts for it and looks at her genuinely and her brow clinches and she stings for a tear. They tense, see the emergency has waned into minimal necessity and people are spreading back out across the docks. </p><p>He opens his hand for his jacket and briefly she hesitates to give it to him. But she does. </p><p>“Ryder..” Cora asks for his ear, and as he shrugs the white back on, she says, “You know I’d do anything for you..”</p><p>He steadies, smooths his waters although he appears as calm as the sea before a storm, a terrifying stillness. His next question holds the weight of his lifetime, “Are you saying that to me or your Pathfinder?”</p><p>Her eyes look him up and down, show the hesitation, the ambiguity to his identity, or the lack of division in her mind, the place he owns in her heart intertwined with her concept of the Pathfinder. </p><p>He sighs, lets out that lifetime, “Where am I supposed to fit in that, Cora? Where’s just Ryder? You come in guns blazing and don’t think what you’re leaving me after all this? I can’t be everything the Pathfinder needs to be all the time.” He takes the hat gently, “Protecting me or the Pathfinder, could you choose?”</p><p>Softly, she examines him, and from the Tempest ramp Liam calls them, “Guys! You were due forever ago! Addison’s waiting!”</p><p>Ryder leads the way back, her steps slow, confused, watching his back and wondering when she could ever see him as anything else but her Pathfinder, her confidant, her lantern. Wondering when the weight of the title began to become a burden, or if it was this way the whole time and for the sake of his importance, Ryder had merely endured the pain and she had overlooked it for her own faults with his promotion. When had the Pathfinder started to overwhelm Ryder’s entirety? Always something, Alec’s son, the Pathfinder, the Initiative’s soldier, SAM’s host, she slows at the Tempest ramp, following him up into their ship with her gaze, and finally looks back over her shoulder up into the city, the market and to the Collective base and then down to the omni-tool in her hand. </p><p>The meeting is tense, Ryder serious as usual, quiet, withdrawn. They agree to stay, protect Christmas Tate and the first wave of settlers when they arrive, and while they wait the team will continue finalizing the outpost’s structure. Cora folds her arms, stews in the confusion. Could she see anyone else sitting there in Ryder’s seat? Could she even see herself now?</p><p>Impossible. </p><p>Following the hallways lined with his presence, she stops at the medbay and knocks, Lexi calling her in. </p><p>The doctor turns in her chair, lowering the datapad and offers the smooth neutral expression of attention and knowing eyes. “Cora, come have a seat.”</p><p>Seeing the pinch in her brow, the sullen turn of her lips, Lexi asks, “Would you like a warm drink?” They meet gazes and Cora breathes, folds her hands and nods slightly. </p><p>The warmth of a mug in her palms, she sits in the quiet of a comrade who has watched them all this time and given the emotional security of a stable place to talk about their difficult issues. The doctor’s professionalism, her constant self-reflection and determination to provide ensure they are all growing together and nothing is irrelevant for the sake of their peace of minds. She knows distinctly of their burdens, and for that there is trust. </p><p>While Cora processes, Lexi writes her research, making notes, and the whirring of machines, the soft beeping, is comforting and familiar, a place every team member has their own relationship with and a certain affection for, the Tempest their home in all rooms in some way. </p><p>“When did you find out?” Cora finally asks, although it still provides a shielded level of defense, a direct avoidance of her own emotions, knowledge craved to somehow give distance to hurt. </p><p>Lexi only looks at her, lets Cora take the time to elaborate.</p><p>“About Ryder and Reyes.”</p><p>“You know I avoid answering questions about other team member’s personal lives.” </p><p>Her grip tightens on the mug. She <em>does</em> know this. Tea shimmering back at her, still steaming, she worries on her bottom lip. The reminder only furthers the critically lacking perspective she has on the man from the shadows, the one she thought was just a business associate for too long. The one she believed firmly was manipulating her leader and needed to be brought to justice. </p><p>Lexi watches her conflict, scoots a little closer and says softly, “Have you talked to Ryder about this?”</p><p>It stings, then it turns to deep rooted soreness. It must show on her face because Lexi gently follows up, “Another fight?”</p><p>“How could we not fight?” Cora replies miserably, “First we’re meeting a mysterious agent from a band of spies for information like usual, how many of those have we encountered? Then all of a sudden he’s completely intertwined in everything we’re doing, he’s making deals with the Initiative leadership and just when I think it can’t get any more complicated, Ryder’s dropped the L word.” </p><p>“Love?” Lexi confirms, and Cora scoffs, putting the mostly full mug onto the desk, needing to free her hands, stand, feel the emotions run through her entire body lest it implode her vulnerable heart. </p><p>“Love isn’t something that should be associated with a man like Reyes Vidal.” </p><p>“Ryder seems to think it should.”</p><p>Following the lines of organized datapads and files with her fingers, Cora hears, and says nothing, the cool and calm setting of the medbay settling anger for honest contemplation. </p><p>“Maybe you should talk to Liam about this. His perspective could be enlightening, or at the very least fresh.”</p><p>After a long, tense moment, Cora asks, “Is he..“</p><p>“He <em>should</em> be organizing the storage room. He promised.” Lexi says and this finally brings a thin smile to Cora’s features, and they look at one another in fondness and deep, deep unity. No one to tell them of the black and white of the world that won’t budge no matter how sharply it cuts, just the comfort of a home established and the understanding needed when the world is vast with tangles and thorns. </p><p>“And Cora,” Lexi says, turning to follow the lieutenant as she goes to leave, “Go easy on Ryder maybe? You’ve only got one of him and he’s more sensitive than you think.” The mild humor, the turn of her lips makes certain Cora is not in the same headspace she arrived in, and will give Liam the much-needed buffer for a conversation he doesn’t know is swiftly approaching. </p><p>The door comes open and he startles, dropping off his pull-up bar installed craftily into the low panels and blocks of the air shafts. His sweat shows on his bare torso and he half laughs, sighing in relief, “You scared me, Cor. Thought you were Lexi coming to check up on my progress.” The low, yellowed light of several lamps makes for a mellow atmosphere, not too bright or demanding, just the right level for free time, time away from reports and stiff business.  </p><p>“She said you promised to clean up, although looks like you still have a ways to go on that.” Cora glances over the stacks of boxes, the dusting remains of missions finished or parts unusable or unneeded at the moment. The couch is soft despite the distinct stains, a soda here, an Angaran snack there, and she slides an arm along the back, half watching him grab a towel. </p><p>“It’s like she senses when I’m slacking off.”</p><p>“You’re admitting it.”</p><p>“Well, of course, who wants to go through all those old odds and ends?” He half laughs, snapping a water bottle open and taking a healthy drink. “I told her I’d do it so she’d sign off another evening to watch movies. She won’t agree to a night away from work without incentive.”</p><p>Cora relaxes more fully into the couch, comforted by his personable nature, the underlying compassion and generosity beneath his easy going exterior. “Even though she totally knows this place has been a mess since the start.”</p><p>He drops down on the couch next to her and agrees, “That isn’t changing anytime soon.”</p><p>Pulling her arm back, she smooths her palms down her pants and Liam asks, “So what happened between you and Ryder? Another argument?”</p><p>“How’d you know?” </p><p>He waves it off, “You were there for that meeting, remember? Like sitting on glass, even the air was hostile. You guys made Addison uncomfortable, which is saying a lot.”</p><p>Sheepishly she pats her knees, “That bad, huh?”</p><p>“Awful!” He insists, but he’s smiling, and he says more seriously, “Did something happen at the meeting with the Collective?”</p><p>She doesn’t want to reveal her emotional outburst, her attack on someone who had Ryder’s full defense and the way it turned sour for all those involved. She had felt righteous, victorious even, until she realized the brutal blow she’d shot through Ryder to get to the Charlatan. But had she put a stop to something dishonest, something that would’ve harmed worse the longer it developed?</p><p>“What do you think about Reyes Vidal?”</p><p>“Vidal?” Liam tosses back the rest of his water bottle to give him a moment to think, “There’s a lot more to him than I initially thought, that’s for sure.” He has enough tact not to question the shift, knowing the direction now. </p><p>She wonders how he can sound so neutral about such a terrifying observation, but logistically she understands this is how Liam Kosta makes connections across the vast differences in their universe. All this time, was this Ryder’s special place, his quiet escape? Always, Cora has found the uniform to be the drive, the purpose and the place of safety, the fear of floating directionless startling her awake at night in between missions when the lull threatens the stability of knowing what to do. Ryder had looked so composed, so <em>right</em> in his white uniform, his white and blue armor. She thought him the same. </p><p>“Do you… trust him?” She rubs her knuckles, hunched. The omni-tool presses against her leg in her pocket, hard and demanding to be felt.</p><p>“Trust.” Liam echoes her, considering the word, “It’s hard to say I trust him, but taking into account what could’ve happened with the Outcast and Sloane Kelly, it’s easier to picture the Collective as allies than not at this point.”</p><p>“Not like that.” Then she sighs, and says, “Well, yeah, like that, but more than that.”</p><p>He nods, looks across the storage room, looks off into the distant universe they all see if they close their eyes and rubs his hands together slow and thoughtful. “I get you.” He says, gets up, pulls on a long sleeve shirt, finally aired dry and drops onto the table so they can look at each other, “It isn’t what you pictured for Ryder, yeah?”</p><p>She hates how it sounds, hates how simplified and selfish it becomes and he can see her want to deny his angle. </p><p>“Sure, Cor, it’s bigger picture and all that but is it? Vetra and Peebee were never going to be pristine, by-the-book people and you wouldn’t want it any other way.”</p><p>“They’ve dedicated themselves to Ryder, to our cause, to-“ She grasps for the reason she feels so much love, so close to people who would’ve never crossed her path in othered circumstances, “To saving our universe.”</p><p>“Yeah, you can see that, because they’re here. On our ship. Everyday. You know what else you see? Vetra loophole Initiative protocol for supplies while she manages her contacts for her market demand. And don’t get me started on Peebee’s sticky fingers. She’s picked up more than half the stuff backed up here and she sure as hell didn’t pay for any of it.</p><p>“But hey, we pulled together, right? We’re a team and a damn good one.” He leans back, shoulders strong in his white shirt, “You’ve got to give people the chance to prove they want to do good.”</p><p>“The stakes are too high, Liam, what if-..” </p><p>He watches her battle the demons of the unknown and gently offers, “What if what? We can’t face something worse than the Archon, and even Sloane was too diabolical for the Collective.”</p><p>“What if he doesn’t want to do good?” She blurts out, “What if this is all an elaborate scheme?”</p><p>“Yeah, can’t say he’s a hundred percent. Could be totally lying.”</p><p>“Liam!” She says, appalled and he chuckles, “What? I mean, anything’s possible, you know? But hey, Ryder deserves the chance to find that out himself. Did you think we were ever going to get an outpost on Kadara? I’m not saying everything so far doesn’t benefit the Charlatan equal to the Initiative but it’s been an uphill battle and lots of it has been with the Initiative putting a gun to any and all exile’s head. Up to this point, Vidal didn’t have any reason to trust us either and yet, here we are establishing ourselves. Ryder’s probably the first genuine attempt to see eye to eye. Maybe that was thanks to Vidal.” </p><p>“All his spying doesn’t look good on his record.”</p><p>Liam lifts an eyebrow, shows a smile, “Cora, Ryder’s a celebrity. Guy’s got channels just to gossip about him. Hell, even you’ve got your own following. If Vidal’s finding something other people aren’t then he isn’t using it for the destruction of the Initiative.”</p><p>She swallows the idea but not without the sensation of needles. Liam comes close, onto the couch beside her and puts an arm around her, “Let the man have his chance. Not everyone inherits a title like Ryder, and with it the opportunity to do a universe of change. You don’t seriously think Ryder would intentionally put us or the Nexus in harm’s way?”</p><p>“Of course not.” Cora relents, resentment to his point leaking through. He pats her shoulder, undeterred and says, “Hey, by the way, I’m taking tomorrow off for construction duty.” Gliding up, he only grins to her frown, “I’ve got an interesting lead I want to follow up. A place called ‘Lone Star’ I want to find.”</p><p>“We’ve got a deadline.”</p><p>“We’re only here for so long. It’d be a waste to spend the whole time working! In a couple weeks’ time, who knows if it’ll still be around? You only live once.”</p><p>“Oh, that old saying.” Cora waves him off but doesn’t argue further, knowing Liam will find his escape and he jerks his chin toward the door but past her, “Ryder still in his room? I’m going to run it by him.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Cora says, seeing the locked door in her mind’s eye like a strange retribution. The door he usually leaves open for visiting while he works, Peebee sprawled on his bed, Vetra flipping through his maps, Jaal and him pouring over artifacts ready to be logged. She avoids walking past when she goes to think in solitude. Laying in her bunk, she has the privacy to examine the omni-tool, feel it properly in her hands. Its dark screen stares back at her like those eyes on the balcony at the base over Ryder’s shoulder. Turning the screen on, she waits for it to tell her she’s right and watches messages ping past, but nothing catches her eye. </p><p>Breathing heavily, she massages her eyes and slips it into her bunk shelf. Rolling over, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, listening to the comforting sound of Drack and Lexi talking lowly in the other room, she imagines a world where Ryder refused to be their Pathfinder and found his way here to Kadara, available to accept any offer the Charlatan would extend. Punishing herself, she sees him happy and free and unchained and ultimately a far less forgiving family as the Tempest team. Her tears are warm on the pillowcase. She both misses Alec and wishes she could talk to Ryder about the very subject she can’t talk to him about. </p><p>The night passes with Ryder checking email that grants little reprieve for a wounded heart. </p><p>He’s tired, and SAM says as much as he sits on his bedside running his fingers through his hair absently, head in his hands. The ship’s been asleep for hours, even Kallo opening up comms to say goodnight. </p><p>“Pathfinder, we still have four and a half hours before the outpost needs us.”</p><p>“I can’t sleep, SAM.”</p><p>“You’ll need your rest to continue to do the hard labor your team is offering Ditaeon.”</p><p>“I’ve laid there for hours.”</p><p>“Lay down one more time, and I’ll show you something that may help.”</p><p>“SAM..” He sighs, but the AI insists, and he rolls onto his bed, looking up at the blank ceiling. The screen Gil had installed when he was injured lowers, and Ryder watches quietly, the lights dimming. It turns on, and a vision of a walkway comes onto the screen. It’s windy, blowing the sandy grasses and the clouds, the wood rising like walking into the sky. Gently running his fingers across own skin, Ryder comforts himself as he waits to see. His stomach is still in residual knots, twisting at every second thought so the distraction is painfully welcomed.</p><p>The person follows the path, the railings leading further and further, and when they reach the end, there are stairs but what catches Ryder’s breath is the ocean, the sweeping powerful waves, the smashing of white and blue against the soft brown. Two children are playing in the shallow end, a woman standing nearby, her hand up to catch her hair from her face. </p><p>The man makes a noise, and his gaze turns down, where he’s holding a cooler and he repositions it to take the stairs and Ryder asks quietly, “Is this…?”</p><p>“Yes, this is your father. These are his memories.” </p><p>Laughter echoes up into the roar of the water, the constant cycle of the world’s system and a bird cries above head. Sand beneath the feet rocks the perspective and softly, with such underlying affection, Alec says as he approaches the woman, “Ellen.” Ryder’s heart clenches. </p><p>His mother turns, her eyes folding with pleasant surprise and the curve of her lips is something from a distant loving childhood memory of the youth of parents before age became relevant. Fingers rising, Ryder draws a soft line across his mother’s face, and she says without even an ounce of reproach, “You’re late.”</p><p>Chuckling, knowingly, Alec says, “I know. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“You brought the beach blanket?”</p><p>He lifts it, a pattern faded when Ryder thinks about it but now sees it in its former glory and a smile glows in the screen. Alec pushes the cooler into the sand and whips out the blanket, offering Ellen to sit and she, slipping her hair behind her ear, gives him the coy eye of someone appreciative and sits with grace. </p><p>“Dad!” A voice calls from the waves and Sara waves with both arms, gleaming underneath the afternoon rays of sun. Her skin is flushed with a tan and freckles and she has a gap for a baby tooth already lost. “Watch me!” Taking a running start, she puts out each hand and effortlessly spins into a cartwheel, kicking up sand, water and lands with a grin. </p><p>“Wonderful form, honey!” Alec calls, waving a hand back and young Ryder, still running to catch up, smears a hand across her and says, “I can do that!” When he gets his hands in the sand, they slip and he tumbles into the water, getting a face full of oncoming wave and sputters, jerking up. </p><p>Sara bursts into laughter, quickly coming to his aid, and he wipes his face, wet. At first he shows a sheepish, embarrassment but the glow of Sara’s cheeks makes him chuckle and he takes her hand. She draws him up to spin, and says, “This is why you should come to gymnastics with me!” </p><p>Alec draws a hand across the blanket, sliding it over top Ellen’s and she turns to him, then softly intertwines their fingers as they watch on, the race between twins that Ryder remembers being so frustrating to lose but sees now how happy they really were and sighs heavily, relaxing into the pillows. </p><p>“Soda?” Alec offers, opening the cooler and Ellen, leaning into him asks, “Did you-“ And as he lifts up a coke, she smiles, and takes it with satisfaction, “I hope you brought juice flavors other than grape, you know Sara has a thing for red fruit right now.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I grabbed strawberry.” </p><p>“Oh,” And Ryder loves how rich her voice becomes when she drops it hearing something she likes, “She’ll love that.”</p><p>The waves boom on the shore and Sara’s glee rises up as it chases them back to dry sand, Ryder pulling up his ankles to avoid getting caught. Alec moves in close as they relax onto their elbows, pushing toes into sand and he murmurs, “Give me a sip.”</p><p>The scenery is exchanged for a gorgeous close up of Ellen, the coke bottle passed slowly between them and Alec tastes it with a hum. They watch on, the sky meeting the water in a beautiful meld of blues as their children splash, kick water and run until they’re waist deep and take to floating. Over and over, the ocean speaks, an endless call to the fluidity of the world. SAM, lowering the volume ever so slightly, asks, “Ryder? Are you asleep?” He knows he doesn’t have to ask this, but does, because it is how they communicate, and show respect for boundaries which he can overcome in every way but does not. He asks because he knows Ryder would appreciate it.</p><p>With slow, careful movements, SAM puts away the screen, and begins counting down the minutes until someone will come looking for their leader so he can protect the fragile bubble of relief he created. For some reason, while the memory brought a burst of wondrous joy, it is painful, and he wonders if this bittersweet sensation is how loneliness feels when it is coupled with love. His module flickers, then returns to spinning smoothly. </p><p>Morning matures, and still yet Cora doesn’t see anything on the omni-tool. Coffee with Suvi leads to at least a calm and peaceful discussion, and when Peebee hops into the kitchen, she smiles to Cora like usual and bumps shoulders with her while they drink coffee like siblings might. </p><p>Nomad ready to be deployed, Liam vanished to his leap into the rabbit hole of Kadara’s mysteries, Drack saunters through the hall and jerks a thumb, “Been ready for fifteen minutes. Where’s the kid?” </p><p>Lexi laughs, gives him a look over her datapad, “Might want to elaborate which ‘kid’ you’re talking about.”</p><p>Rumbling a chuckle, Drack counts his team members, “Peebee’s in the Nomad, Liam’s got the right idea,” Then he points to the surrounding people, “Got Harper, Nyx, and Jaal is upstairs with Resistance. So..” He turns his gaze on Lexi who returns the pointed stare, “So you mean Ryder.”</p><p>“Bingo.”</p><p>“The Pathfinder is still asleep, Drack.” SAM informs him and the mercenary grunts, “Well, shit. If we’re waiting for Ryder to wake up we’re gunna be here a minute. Kid sleeps like a Krogan after a ritual. I’ll go tell Peebee someone forgot an alarm clock.” </p><p>“Hey, we still got those bikes, right?” Vetra grabs his attention, leaning on the main console in their open research room, “I’ll wait for Ryder to get up and we’ll ride out to meet you. Everyone needs a chance to sleep in every once in a while.”</p><p>“Better you than me. I’d crush Liam’s fancy toys just sitting on ‘em. C’mon, Harper.” Drack waves her on, and Cora hesitates, glancing toward the bridge, but she follows despite the sensation of personal responsibility, knowing if she had a rough night realizing Reyes Vidal was not planning on consoling Ryder after everything then he felt it tenfold. She glances to Vetra who, whether purposefully allowed the much-needed space between them or happened on the offering by circumstance, just waves with a smoothed but friendly expression. Cora shies in the kindness shown by a family once believed to be only a team and offers a small smile back. </p><p>The ship wanes in noise but not in work, Lexi filing Kett research, and Suvi reading over their copy of Heleus’ map with Kallo. Gil’s music can be heard if one were to approach engineering, but all those who mingle in the far reaches of the Tempest are out, Jaal’s deep, thick voice cascading down from the meeting room every so often. </p><p>Vetra notices a few strange emails in her inbox in this downtime, a few heartfelt thank you’s from names she doesn’t recognize and while studying, researching their backgrounds, she hears the distinct sound of hurrying footsteps up the ladder to Ryder trotting down into the research room, smoothing bed tousled hair. </p><p>“Where’s everyone?” He asks in a breath, fixing his shirt and Vetra closes her inbox, it effectively logging out for her as they look at one another. She doesn’t let her gaze linger anywhere, not on his lack of omni-tool and his choice in clothing, a sweatshirt given to him by Sara, but he makes direct eye contact, “Nobody woke me.”</p><p>“The outpost isn’t going anywhere fast.” She says loosely, and his shoulders drop minimally, sweeping another hand through his hair. He doesn’t want to admit he’s only desperate for a distraction, a means to pass time, get out of his head, even if everything he looks at makes him sick with heart ache. But if he thinks he will hide things from her, or from all of them, now, he is only telling himself that to make it feel less naked.</p><p>“Cora, Drack and Peebee can handle it for now. I’ve got something to show you.” Vetra begins walking back toward the cargo bay, lifting a couple of keys to jingle them enticingly, “And we’re borrowing Liam’s bikes.” </p><p>Fresh air, the breath of freedom, a given moment of reprieve, and the speed to beckon adrenaline, excitement and a bit of friendly competition saves Ryder the strain of forcing fortitude as a leader, seconding his emotions. Vetra leads him down dust roads, off the tracks of the minimal levels of civilization still available out in the badlands and winds through the hills, unafraid of popping wheelies and getting a reaction out of her Pathfinder just for the sake of his amusement and nothing else. </p><p>When he pulls off his helmet, grin spreading as she parks and kicks out the stand, he says, “Pretty far out from everything.”</p><p>“Oh yeah, when I go for solitude, I don’t cut corners.” She says, eyes folding at the corners with a smile.</p><p>He swings his leg over, leaves his helmet on a handle bar grip and she nods him forward to an arching cliff on a massive, pocketed rock. Craning his neck, Ryder searches for the edge of the top and she says, “Helmet fixed your bed head. Too bad we’re about to mess it up again.” Her chin tips to the rock. </p><p>He laughs, and says, “You can’t mean we’re going to climb this thing.”</p><p>“Scared?” She quips, and he holds up a finger, “This sounds like you’re asking for a race.”</p><p>“No jump jets.” </p><p>Interest flashes in his eyes and he hums, testing the rock with a couple of hand grabs. “You’ve climbed this before.”</p><p>Pretending to think, Vetra loosely turns her head back and forth, “Once or twice.”</p><p>“Alright, no jump jets. But I get a head start.”</p><p>She considers him, but she already knows she’ll agree. They line up, Ryder stretching, loosening his back and shoulder muscles and examining his route with an intelligent craft learned from their many days in the field. Able to use his puzzle solving skills, his mapping and recon abilities just for his own sake, just to stimulate, it shimmers in his eyes, an activity not muddled by the necessity of success. He isn’t laying out a place to put vulnerable lives and hope he is enough of a defense to not let them down, or finding out the dark secrets of ancient worlds with danger buzzing around each corner. And there’s no clock ticking, telling him he has to learn fast or else. </p><p>Placing his hands, he says, “Twenty second head start?”</p><p>“You don’t want to compromise at ten?”</p><p>“Fifteen.”</p><p>“Twelve.”</p><p>“Seventeen.”</p><p>She chuckles and relents, “Fifteen it is.”</p><p>He pulls himself up, putting his feet into the rock and she starts counting, watching the strength in his legs and the muscles of his arms maneuver for the dips and the protruding shapes. Every second he uses for his advantage, glancing up for his next move and then down for security in his lower body. She almost feels bad she’s going to overwhelm his human limitations. Almost. </p><p>Positioning her foot, she calls, “Here I come, Ryder!” </p><p>“Damn,” His voice echoes down, “Fifteen seconds goes fast!”</p><p>She boosts herself, long legs finding the perfect steps and swiftly scales upward. Ryder shakes sweat from his face, shoulders tensing, but he doesn’t slow his pace, giving her a run for her money. Wind howls from the far mountains, a call of nature, hits them, and they both cling to the rock, turning their faces in. </p><p>“Think Kadara gets winter?”</p><p>Picturing snow-covered peaks, white smoothing the noise of the Port and giving boots a crunch in the everyday, the slush of dirtied frozen water and dull skies with low hanging clouds, Vetra hums, “Might be nice. If they know how to make a good hot toddy. And they invest properly in local heat. Can’t relive Voeld twice.”</p><p>Ryder chuckles, heaves himself up an especially far reach, “Everyone huddled around a heater, bartering over guns and ammunition. Makes a heartwarming image.”</p><p>Vetra laughs, “We’ll have to get matching scarfs.”</p><p>Ryder thinks on the image, but then sees something else, something far less amusing. The cold wind carrying snowflakes, white on white, the dark coat of a man standing in the marketplace with the distinct coiling of breath from the slightest turn of the lips. Against all the greys of clouds eyes that could never lose their deep richness, no matter what color the sky is. His breath catches and Ryder slows, dropping his forehead against the rock, legs trembling. A stare that never hesitated, elegance in a perfectly tuned existence, the market melding around him, the whole world of Kadara gravitating to his steps. White on shining black hair, and a room where warmth will stay and ease the ache of chilled fingers and skin. The cot that was just inches too small to let them pretend it’s all just comforts for the body, legs still tangled after pleasure is achieved and hands reassuring, intimate even when they no longer need to be. White snow touching against the window to tell them it’s okay to stay inside, to hide from the world and Ryder hears his name, SAM’s perfect replica unnecessary for his heart’s grasp on Reyes Vidal and that voice he would hear even in hell. </p><p>“Ryder.” Vetra calls and he snaps his head up, her face peaking out from over the cliff and he swallows, tries to correct his expression and pulls himself up the remaining reach. She puts out a hand when he makes it, helping him to his feet, breath hard in his chest and she says with the tact of a best friend, “You almost had me. Did you give me a handicap?”</p><p>Bending over, somehow more breathless than he might’ve been otherwise, he gives her an attempt at light hearted, “Got tired.” He says, and the words are as hallow as he feels, an entire winter experienced from their imagination but lacking the solaces to keep him safe from the ice settling inside. </p><p>Standing further away, giving him room to collect himself, Vetra looks out across the scenery, blending in the radiating glow of orange and distinct yellows. When her Pathfinder joins her, coming to the edge of their conquered feat, their eye to eye with Kadara, he sees the very view a certain rooftop offered him, the beauty of the untamed land, harsh mountains that alter light, bend the sky and make clouds beautiful and distinct, reds, purples, vivid and tie dye. Nothing built, nothing claimed, just the idea of life that could be, places of earned solitude where nature and man meet and agree to coexist. He sighs, seeing the beauty, feeling it sharp in his soul and almost has to turn his gaze away, knowing this view is something forever intertwined with Kadara’s heart. </p><p>They sit, legs dangling on the edge, and Vetra raises a hand into the wind racing up the side of the rock, feeling it between her talons. “Doesn’t it give you a thousand ideas? Of what could be?”</p><p>He squeezes his knuckles, tight, tight, hurts himself in the hold and says, voice choked, “Yeah.” </p><p>“I could’ve been out here, making a living off Kadara’s land, off dangerous situations made profitable. Same old chase, same old risks, but then you gave me a chance on the Tempest.” She meets his eye, doesn’t question the heart on his sleeve, “You didn’t have to. There was no reason to trust me, rather my name was never one to be put on the first page in a good light. But you didn’t even hesitate.”</p><p>His lips turn to a fragile smile. </p><p>“You changed my destiny there, Ryder. No matter how me and Sid do our business on the side. I look at this scenery and see all the ways my life and hers could’ve been the same, and I would’ve never been the wiser for what friendship means like what we have on the Tempest. I see all the paths that lead me back here, and you gave me the one that didn’t. I know the Pathfinder title is a hard one to carry, but without you, Ryder, I would’ve never gotten the chance to prove to Sid I’m the big sister I’ve always wanted to be. You gave me that opportunity and for that I’ll follow you the whole way.”</p><p>Ryder breathes, a little too raw to make light of her words, and he looks down to his reddened skin overtop faded scars on his hands and fights to hold back emotions. </p><p>“It may not be what you need coming from me, but if I know anything about what it means to be a person who has always had to look over their shoulder, you’ve given many of us a shot at something bigger than life as an ‘exile.’ It’s not easy, to go from shadows and self-serving days spent all the way to the last second like it’s your last but I think it’s worth it and that’s thanks to you.” </p><p>“It.. means a lot to me. To hear that.” He says, and she smiles, “I’m not the only one who’s changed since meeting you.”</p><p>She could be talking about anyone, and the generality speaks to the vast universe of people who have seen a brighter future since their meeting with the Pathfinder. She knows he hurts, but she gently persuades him out of his private mourning for the beauty of everything else turned golden by his careful touch. </p><p>“Maybe the person under the helmet doesn’t matter.” He finally confesses, the hurt, the tender bruise beneath the surface and the personal turmoil that is Ryder’s to carry. “Maybe all that matters is what a Pathfinder can offer.”</p><p>“And that Pathfinder is you. You’re irreplaceable.” </p><p>Words he desperately needed to hear but could never ask for, many nights spent wondering why he was given this world of responsibility when the better candidates roomed just next door. When his father was everything the foundation of the Pathfinder existence was built on, when his own sister had all the right qualifications. Why him?</p><p>“I couldn’t have found a better leader, and all our success achieved wasn’t just because you have the uniform with a label on it. You made the Pathfinder, not the other way around.”</p><p>He finally feels ready enough to look back at the scenery, the gold haze overtop blooming reds and subtle green down low. It greets him prettily, like he never threatened to shun it and he lets go of his hand. </p><p>“Not every exile or pirate is going to find life back in the light easy, or a challenge worth accepting. And some will reject it, and the Initiative till their last breath. But I know you don’t think less of anyone for that. That’s why you have all of us.”</p><p>He thinks on his team, his neutral scientist with a fascination for Remnant and his ship, the mercenary with a thousand years of wisdom to offer their new universe, and the Resistance given operative with a heart for an entire people offering trust scorned for lifetimes. He sees Liam and Cora, their trio banded tight since Eos, Suvi and Kallo and the genius of his bridge, Gil and Lexi and wishes he could take care of each of their futures, their hopes and dreams. Eyes closed, he wishes he could give them the ideal they all chased out to Andromeda and feels his abilities to do so slipping through his fingers, clenching his hands. Vetra sees this, closes her own hands wishing she could catch some of his responsibility to help. </p><p>“You’re the reason we all get to dream about what the future could be, Ryder. All of us. Even men like Reyes Vidal.”</p><p>The name catches him off guard and he turns his eyes away, stomach lost beneath the pit of anguish. He draws his palm along the roughness of rock and murmurs, “I wasn’t anything more than a means to an end.”</p><p>Vetra examines him while he’s not looking and sees the love between the hurt and remembers the fist that swung out for the smuggler when Spender tried to speak lowly of their association. The defense she prides in, Ryder’s stance in front of all exiles telling his own creators they will live to tell, are worth his bloodshed and suffering has put roots down where no one thought the Initiative could. The person who grieved his own biases, and cried when he thought no one was listening when he realized behind an exile’s mask is just another son, another daughter, another person, found the man behind the Charlatan’s mask too. </p><p>“Maybe, but maybe that end will be something different than what you think.”</p><p>He glances to her, finds her patient gaze and says, “I trusted him when I shouldn’t have.”</p><p>“You didn’t do anything wrong, Ryder.”</p><p>If he was wrong, he could be responsible, he could be better. Considering her, he appreciates the defense more than he realizes, and softens, works his way back from a bitter resentment birthed by a wound for honest attachment. </p><p>“You don’t have to do any of this any other way than how you would do it. You’re not Cora, or your father and the Tempest doesn’t have our big mismatched family just because there’s a Pathfinder rooming on it. It’s you bringing us together and making sure we all survive, Kadara and Elaaden included. I wanted to show you this view because you’ve given me the hope to see a new perspective. I’m sharing that hope with you.”</p><p>Touching his old bullet scar, Ryder presses a thumb in and murmurs, “Thanks, Vetra. For-“</p><p>“For giving you a head start you wasted?” She quickly finishes his sentence, not letting them wade too far away from the moment, to the places terrifying for a leader at the front of a war unsurmountable. She senses where he thinks they will go, and what he should say before he doesn’t have the chance to and won’t let him. </p><p>It draws a slight smile, curved at the edge and she says, “Guess you’ll need those twenty seconds next time after all.”</p><p>“Next time.” He echoes, thinks on it, and her heart swells when he says, “Yeah, next time.”</p><p>The outpost building moves at a steady pace, growing, molding into the very image drawn on paper. Parts bought from Kadara hands taken from Nexus storage make a strange sight but no one from the Tempest says a thing unless it can offer humor, the elasticity of some member’s leniency worn thin and threatening to snap. Ryder, itching for a place to go, an escape, finds himself zoning out, relying on SAM to take over, gloss the unbearable droning of time that seems to wait on every nail and screw each day they spend perfecting details that will eventually become untidy in exchange for being lived in. </p><p>Shining the windows of a laboratory, arm and hand moving in clean circles, Ryder is far away, half processing specs and details, and pleasantly hidden in his reliance on SAM. Drack hammers a railing in, supporting a ramp, and puts a big foot down to test its strength. It creaks, but he grins to Peebee who lifts her hammer in victory. Other builders, hired construction workers, and delivery trucks are parked around, Cora instructing where to put heavy loads, and how to distribute supplies specific to each building. The organized constant movement keeps a flow that would otherwise beg the questions they all know only wounds one and stirs up another. </p><p>A shoulder bumps into Ryder’s and he jerks, surprised, first seeing Liam and then actually recognizing him. </p><p>“I think the window’s clean, yeah?” Liam says, and Ryder turns to his reflection, the faded gaze and the glistening of glass leading to what is still a dark empty room on the other side. “Right.” He says belatedly, lowering the rag and Liam says, “C’mon, tell me you’re bored without telling me you’re bored. Your face says it all. Cora’s not looking,” He murmurs, coming in close with his sneaky grin growing, “Follow me.”</p><p>Ryder glances to Cora’s turned back but tosses the rag into his bucket and follows the other man around the corner and up the stairs. Liam opens up an apartment door, and waves his Pathfinder on, Ryder finally coming into his own mind. </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>Arms spread like the king of a castle, Liam turns slowly around, showing off the fully furnished room for two, the fold in cots and lifted shelves with their sleek retractable desks. “Let me introduce to you, the Kosta suite!” The sun gleams in from the outside, beautiful on the lakes, glimmering like gold, and a plant lives, flourishing, in its beams. Ryder slowly grins, lets the door close behind him and says, “It’s dynamic.”</p><p>“Check this.” Liam trots over to the wall, presses in a panel where a cool hiss of air reveals the inner pocket of a refrigerator, and a water filter beside it for quick hydration. A six pack of beers is waiting inside, cooled, and he pulls them out, “Nothing but the best for our most difficult outpost yet.”</p><p>“It’s the middle of the day.” Ryder reminds him mildly, and Liam, dropping onto a bed shows a devilish smile, “I think the Pathfinder team can decide what time it is whenever we want. C’mere, revel in being right! The lakes look bloody brilliant from here.”</p><p>Ryder hesitates, but sees their past, their many days laughing over a beer can in the dirt of Eos with sand in their gloves and Cora drawing a map with Liam’s funny symbols to indicate various strange happenings. ‘I can’t show this to headquarters.’ She had said and Liam had given her a look, ‘Who else is crazy enough to be out here besides us? Let’s make our mark.’ </p><p>He drops onto the bed, then presses his palm into the mattress. “This is quality.” He says, and Liam offers him a beer, “Can’t have our very important miners sleeping on something subpar. Memory foam, like the Tempest, cost us a pretty penny so if we can slip the receipt underneath Gil’s for the defense dome until it gets to Addison’s desk, it’ll be too far gone to bite. Anyways,”</p><p>They go to clink and the door flies open, both their hearts jumping into their throats. Peebee and Drack stand in the doorway, casting a shadow and Liam lets out a whooping laugh, “Hell! You guys almost gave me a heart attack!”</p><p>“Can’t sneak away that easy, Kosta!” Peebee waggles a finger, sauntering in and Drack grins, “Saw you looking for an opportunity to slack off a mile away. Thought you already took your ‘vacation time.’”</p><p>“Don’t hate the player, hate the fact you don’t know how to play the game.”</p><p>“Nah, I like banging things with a hammer.” Drack smirks, and the door closes, “Gets rid of all the pent up energy that gets trapped on the Tempest.”</p><p>“TMI.” Peebee quickly interjects, snagging a beer and clacking gracefully to both Ryder’s and Liam’s before she hops onto the other bed, and sits with her legs crossed. Drack takes one as well, it looking comically small in his big hand and when he drops down, he pops Peebee up a few inches and they all share a laugh. </p><p>Breathing out after a long drink, Peebee beams, “Nothing better than a cold beer after working hard!”</p><p>“And a view like no other!” Liam raises his can and Ryder looks across his team, his allies and wistfully wishes they could stay safe like this forever, even if he has to endure heartbreak for the length of it. Peebee’s unwavering, fearless interest in the secrets of the universe offering great and bountiful knowledge, Drack’s generous faith in the future that will still be worth fighting for after all these centuries, Liam’s gaze that never fails to find good in every present moment, they all prove to be so much more than just the Initiative’s forefront team, and still they find home by his side. He softly smiles behind his can, eyes flicking between Liam and Peebee’s back and forth. </p><p>“Picture this, the gleaming first rays of dawn, the dew on young leaves, you start with those simple beginner stretches, massive change to your day.”</p><p>“What kind of fantasy land are you living in? Your poetry needs help.”</p><p>Drack cuts in lowly, “How do you know what time dawn is in space?”</p><p>Liam isn’t deterred, “You guys are literally up all hours of the day!”</p><p>“Staying awake is very different than waking up at that time. Can’t believe Lexi roped you into her crazy yoga stuff..” Peebee mutters, biting on her can lip, “Jaal would gladly stretch with you, why don’t you ask him?”</p><p>“Oh, he already joins in.”</p><p>“Knew it. Bet you guys do it shirtless too.”</p><p>Liam curls his arm to show a bicep, grinning, “If that’ll motivate you-“</p><p>“I’m <em>not</em> doing yoga at the buttcrack of dawn!”</p><p>The door comes open, and all heads turn to see, Peebee’s mouth still open and the silence indicative of a group of people aware of their situation. Cora leans on the doorway with a smoothed expression, arms folding. Liam, as if movement would attract her eye, slowly hides his can and feigns innocence, but the criminal pack is still out in the open. The air goes tense, waiting, the only sound coming from down below in the construction zones. Ryder glances to Cora’s face, still sensitive to make eye contact and she meets him briefly and they both show reservation toward the other. Arms unfolding, she walks right up to the pack.</p><p>“Warm day isn’t it?” She says tactfully, and grabs a can, cracking it open. Drinking like someone truly thirsty and not just pretending for the group, she has Peebee laughing loudly, caught off guard, “Who are you and where’d you put Cora?”</p><p>“Like Liam once said,” Cora drops onto the bed next to Ryder, “Yolo.”</p><p>Liam lets out a pained groan, laughing, “Don’t quote me in the abbreviated form!” And the tension dissipates, the gravity of their present ordeals proving to be not all consuming, and still allowing wiggle room for the people within them to breathe.</p><p>Ryder thumbs his can, and she gently taps hers to his, catching his attention, the peace making, or the acknowledgment of their togetherness against all odds, even their own differences. He takes a moment to look up, and sees her sincerity, her vow that she took months ago to him when she didn’t know what he would put her through and its sturdiness. She’s been inside his inner world, walked alongside his family, grieved with him for his father and they’ve shared too many long, sleepless nights at the darkest hours for the wedge to destabilize their confidence in one another. He wishes he could be strong enough to let go of the thing that terrorizes her, but at the core of his being, he wouldn’t take back meeting Reyes Vidal for anything. To be the entirety of what they all need from him, that inner world’s appetite begs to be satiated and no longer is it meekly attempting satisfaction by shining medals, badges, preservation of his doings in written word or in holographic history. She can see their deviation, the price paid for walking into a world like Kadara, and she still sits next to him, promises to be here.</p><p>He clinks back. </p><p>Addison confirms the security measures taken, a list to check off, one that has Ryder’s full attention as he stands in front of the hologram going blue on his cheeks and in his eyelashes. He reads along with Addison’s voice, the final details the bow to their unwrapping if electrified domes and sniper towers were ideal gifts. Liam excitedly sits in an office chair, the main office prepped, lights on, plants watered and nameplates positioned, and bounces a leg in impatience. Cora wishes she too could feel so optimistic, so undauntingly captured by a moment to be celebrated, but her instincts are on edge, so she takes comfort in Ryder’s calm demeanor, his steadfast voice reading back to Addison, possessive in his levelled leadership, his constant presence at the forefront.</p><p>Addison clears them for the opening ceremony of Ditaeon, and Ryder lets out a long breath, free of the stiff report and minimizes his omni-tool, one from the backlogs, a simple and efficient, if not slightly outdated Initiative branded type. Gil had pulled one from storage upon hearing about Ryder’s bare arm saying he wasn’t about to deal with another MIA situation like he did once. Glancing between his team, Ryder asks, “Are we ready?” His sullen demeanor receded, seemingly vanished, it shows no indication of rearing its head, security ample in his tone. Still, Cora knows better. Reading Ryder has become a lesson mandatory for all Tempest allies and they know the pain will show in his actions and his eyes when he thinks no one is looking. </p><p>“Been ready the last twenty minutes!” Liam jumps up, rolling his shoulders back and forth and Cora nods curtly, steadying her brow for the light of day on her face. </p><p>The outpost is secured by guards from the Collective, a presence of red that only reminds, reminds, reminds. Ryder doesn’t have to search, he already knows a certain mastermind camouflaged within the ranks will not be here, among the soldiers. Instead he looks to the stage, their craft, the efforts to show reconciliation and respect and to where Keema and Jaal stand. A call comes in to his omni-tool from the docks and he answers. </p><p>Vetra says, “Christmas Tate and everyone just landed. Everything’s in place.”</p><p>“Vehicles ready for transport?”</p><p>“Gassed up and raring to go.” </p><p>Liam bumps Cora with an elbow, saying, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.” Light glows from the sky, thinly clouded and expansive. </p><p>Her brow still holds a frown, despite her adjustment to the rays of sunlight and she says, “I’ve got a weird feeling.”</p><p>Ryder green lights the announcement system, and it booms into the air, “The mayor and his residents are en route!” </p><p>He turns to his team, and pulls her out of her thoughts, “In position, Pathfinder team.” They separate, Ryder going down the ramp, and passing faces of men and women in uniform, he can tell there’s mutual consideration, a watchful gaze on his back to tell him they will act on a promise made by their leader if need be. The assurance from such a telling promise and the ones that came before it (‘don’t touch the human Pathfinder’) do nothing to heal the heart, only makes it weep. </p><p>Keema smiles at his approach, and when he takes her hand in both of his, her eyes narrow with it widening. “You have made history, a new page, something the Port and Kadara needed desperately.”</p><p>“<em>We</em> made history.” He says and she squeezes his hand, “I stand in place for Angara and the Collective leadership and I know the Charlatan prides himself in this relationship with you Pathfinder. Our people prosper because of you two.”</p><p>It whips across Ryder’s back, cutting so deep he can’t stop it flinching in his expression. He attempts to smooth a jerk reaction, clearing his throat with a tight, “Excuse me.” But she catches it all, eyes full of his face. Examining him, the opportunity passes for another comment as Jaal comes forward and puts a hand to each of their shoulders. “Joyous day we have and with the weather so clear, it is meant for our safe travels and hand shaking.”</p><p>“It is the universe smiling upon us.” Keema agrees, gently taking her eyes off the Pathfinder. </p><p>Ryder swallows, glances betrayingly into the unchanged red standing in disciplined form, and listens to the oncoming roar of vehicles traveling on dirt. Voices begin to talk, soldiers breaking stance to share in the rising moment, and Angara praying, hugging one another with limbs loose for the safety of the plentiful guards. Media depart from their rides, laughing, cackling, setting up cameras, hawk like in their gazes and lazily casual in their presence, a performance to disarm and earn interview. The Nexus journalist team is far less nuanced, serious, examining, whispering in the safety of a cool shoulder and that doesn’t go unnoticed by their Initiative branded soldier who watches tensely. The Collective has covered all its bases, prim and proper and polite to the Initiative; Failing to return the consideration goes against their agreement, goes against everything he put his own record on the line for. If they have nothing left, if he is now no more than a fully depleted resource no longer worth even the regard of the Charlatan’s presence or word, then he will at least honor their final tie. He will protect what they built together. </p><p>Liam leads the mayor through the heart of the outpost, the man to hold Ryder’s place, earning the ache just beneath his chest. Ryder breathes, catches himself raw and folds his hands behind his back so he can assemble some form of composure. The last reason to be here, the baton pass he wishes he could fumble for one more chance, he watches on, knowing he has no power to stop the ever moving change of his life. Another long look at the faces and the questions sting. </p><p>Like this, Reyes? Like we never happened? </p><p>Christmas Tate appears satiated by Liam’s clever knowledge and they come onto the stage, eyes alive and well and when he reaches out for Ryder’s hand, Ryder sees the Milky Way and its fortitude, the honed expertise crafted for a demanding purpose and the endurance between two men who share a mission where there will be decisions unpopular. He no longer feels like a trainee standing on the sidelines learning the trade of the job, this armor fit for him, and no one else. Vetra’s words, his father giving him the helmet, this man with decades on his experience acknowledging him as his equal, he embodies the transformed duty. He sees himself in this man’s eyes and that person is… The mayor’s grip is strong, set in a hand that knows stone and he says deeply, “Good to finally meet you, Pathfinder.”</p><p>Ryder hears the pride of men worn by hard years, the title spoken with reverence, gold and victory and one with a rank earned, tested, tried and true. “Welcome to your outpost, Mayor Tate.”</p><p>“You’ve put in good work here, I can tell. I’ve heard a thousand things about Kadara, the Collective,” His intelligent eyes flick across the base, into the mountains, along each detail, “The Charlatan,” He says with a certain quality that has Ryder’s heart beat skip, “But I think I’ll have to make my own opinions working the job.” He gives the Pathfinder’s hand another gracious pump and then releases him, showing a pleasant crease of a smile. </p><p>A good man to pass the baton to. </p><p>“Got to say though,” Tate leans into Ryder, glancing to the oncoming cameras, “The media always like that? Fucking buzzards with a microphone.” He has the Pathfinder laughing behind his hand and covers the comment by squaring his shoulders and reaching for Keema, making pleasantries. </p><p>Keri gracefully glides her shoulders through the crowd, the many angles trying for the best shot and says with familiarity, “Pathfinder Ryder!” She beams at his approach, his outstretched hand going straight into hers without hesitation. She looks over Ditaeon, glowing with interest, the eyes of hope and awe, “For all the horror stories about Kadara’s badlands, this is quite an impressive step for the Initiative. And the talk on the Nexus says the Pathfinder team built it themselves.”</p><p>Ryder softens, thinks on all the things he can’t say but wishes he could bring to the light, “We had help.” He implies the men and women in red, the deal that could’ve strangled him for his weakness and didn’t. He implies the ‘we’ that seems so official and impersonal now.  </p><p>“Can’t imagine what this cost.” She doesn’t think twice about the concept of assistance, goes straight into numbers, things to attract the eye when reading a headline, “Don’t tell me it came out of Pathfinder funds?”</p><p>Escaping examination, he finds his humor, “Trust me, you don’t want to see our checkbook. But Tann keeps those top secret and balances it himself.”</p><p>“Once an accountant, always an accountant.” </p><p>Ryder chuckles, thankful for the wit, the burden of a ceremony too serious agonizing to his still bruised heart, a somber mirror to his relationship’s funeral, overly taxing to his mind and his resilience. Keri keeps it short, wanting for research into the environmental components of Ditaeon and unafraid to chase her leads and he returns to his place. </p><p>The settlers, their miners, their hard working blue collar men and women, scientists and the guards to assure their safety all follow with Cora at their front, strong, with the refined air of a highly qualified professional. The sweeping gaze of their people does catch on soldiers standing by, but only momentarily. Many know nothing personal of the rift between exile and Nexus upholder, fresh out of stasis, available to develop a new, transformed narrative. They will benefit from the uphill struggle by the Collective, and the curtesy shown from both sides when nothing called for it but intrigue at the ‘what if.’ </p><p>Standing back on the stage, hoping to hide in the shadows with Liam, Ryder can feel the creeping sensation of the tightening of his collar, the buzz at the base of his neck. Angaran soldiers sit at their drums, nodding to each other. Glancing to them, he rocks on his feet, back and forth, then steadies, tries to fight the growing discomfort. A beat begins, vibrating the air, overwhelming casual conversation, telling the story of Kadara, battles won, battles bloody, and durability that even acid couldn’t burn away. Sunlight bleeding the air, faces watching, Ryder feels hyper aware of eyes following him, even if casual and clenches his jaw, hoping to smooth a painful expression by sheer force. But it swells, and becomes markedly clear he will either need to escape the stage or find a better coping strategy than gritting his teeth and hoping for the best. He glances to Cora who stands firmly at the base of the stage, shoulders squared and serious. His breath catches, holds like it has a mind of its own. If Reyes Vidal had defended them, had spoken for their relationship, Ryder might have continued to rely on that righteous lava of anger to own his place on Kadara, but all he has now is foolish arguments had for the in between lines he read with no proof of their authenticity. He wants to stay angry with her, but seeing her strong stance, he only feels like he’s caving in further, looking for something there that never was and ignoring the warnings of someone who has always had his back otherwise. Murmuring to SAM, Ryder quickly asks for a container for his feelings, the ceremony commencing, rooting him to his spot and going cold down his spine. </p><p>“Understood, Pathfinder.”</p><p>Letting the numbness spread over him, he glides his arms behind his back, listening to the bell ringing, once, twice. The somber, beautiful note of the Angara’s voice beside Keema would have ripped the grief right out of Ryder’s chest but here he is safe, just out of reach and he goes back behind the wall. Keema’s distinct notes pierce the air, the loss of Angara, the war between species and their own kind, the fall of a civilization and its rebirth, and alongside it, a bell rings, rings, rings. </p><p>Air cupped, Keema brings its energy to her chest, hears thousands of years of voices vibrating back through and says strongly, “We have purified this outpost for the Initiative and formally welcome you to Kadara!” </p><p>The applause even hallows in Ryder’s ears, emotions bringing fresh tears of pride to certain passionate settlers who have been waiting for this opportunity for months and scientists show a crinkled brow at the possibilities finally calling their names. Belatedly, he claps, Liam’s resounding clapping reminding him to join. Reaching out for the Pathfinder, they make for the front page of what will be a half a dozen articles, Keema takes Ryder’s hand. He doesn’t smile, but the moment is not one for the flippancy of showing teeth, with the banners of the Collective and the Initiative reminding them who exactly walks alongside Nexus delivered people. Tann would scoff at the audacity to grin for the forced hand that brought them here but the Pathfinder has nothing to smile about anyway. </p><p>Mayor Tate takes the stage, valiant in his straight forwardness, glorifying the common man, celebrating him and his necessity here and tells of an outpost that will know success, fruitful for all who worked to make it happen. His final command to explore, put your bags on the bed you want to claim before anything else puts everything in motion, interviews grabbing excited people, lens snatching photographs for the candid shot, the moment behind the performances and allows those who have only seen the Pathfinder in the glory of the screen and far away to call him closer. Liam beams, laughing with cameras, easy going, smoothing waves threatening to beat their shore of joint civilization. </p><p>Shaking hands with young Collective men holding rifles that prove to be nothing more than part of the uniform, an unknown responsibility still waiting at the final curl of a finger on the trigger, the Pathfinder mellows at the sight of sparkling eyes. Across their destinies, he does not transform in their eyes, keeping his form of hero, even when he is not always fighting for their freedoms. </p><p>“Could you even give an estimate to the number of Kett you’ve killed?” One asks, holding his rifle strap, unafraid of the man who has gutted exiled soldiers just like himself and Ryder considers the question, realizing its gravity. If he was allowed, he wouldn’t be standing here, but there’s nothing to pull him away, no crafted reason to vanish from principle. </p><p>“I couldn’t.” He answers honestly. They coo in amazement, excited by such a feat and one says, “Can I hold it? I’ve looked at all the pictures but to be this close-!” The other’s hands fidget in sensation, a phantom of Ryder’s shotgun already against his palms. </p><p>Ryder pulls it free, the carefully shined and polished body making the young man whistle prettily, “Damn! She’s as much a celebrity as you are.” He rocks it in his hold, touching on an old scar on the barrel and flashes a knowing grin to his ally, “From Elaaden, at the Flophouse.” </p><p>Ryder lets them enjoy the moment, watching the young men he knew were before he needed to embrace the entirety of the Initiative’s purpose. Around him bubbles the chatter of a now populated world once so filled with dark, unused rooms and his numb agony and as a group of scientists pass by, talking openly about the quality of their shuttle in travel he smells it. His heart lurches, beats madly against his chest, and he wishes the hope didn’t explode so readily throughout his body but it rushes straight to his head and he can only think to pursue, prove the faint curl of smoke be exactly who he wants it to be. Flipping right out of his controlled state drives a headache across his temples but he welcomes it, because it’s so vivid. He waits, nerves buzzing, worried it is all just a hallucination of his yearnings. But it’s there, distinct, close by even. Saying nothing, quietly watching, how like the king of the underworld. </p><p>The shotgun locked back in place, he lifts a hand to excuse himself and begins walking to follow the hot scent of a cigarette he craves so specifically. His steps are long, full, strides and when he comes to the wall, the wondrous viewpoint just out of sight from so many places in the outpost, he thinks his heart might just implode. He is alone, but here he looks to the stage, to the key points of interest and fights the intimacy in knowing if he is right, then this would be a place for a person from the shadows to watch a ceremony in full, back to the wall, blind spots protected and bases covered. </p><p>Below, it catches his eye, the cigarette butt and he bends down, picks it up, feeling the warmth and knows its owner wouldn’t be far, he has to be-</p><p>“Ryder!” It snaps his attention, the guttural honesty in anguish and grief and he whirls around, opening his hand for Cora’s approaching arms. “The Leusinia! The Leusinia,” She rushes out, tears distinct in her voice, “It’s at the Nexus, it’s arrived!” And her expression breaks, shatters, tears streaking fast on her cheeks, “And Ishara is gone, she’s gone.” The loss of a highly esteemed hero and matriarch, the loss of a Pathfinder; nothing could devastate more to those who know how vital they are. </p><p>His hands are on her, grabbing her from collapsing to the ground. She lets him, and gently, after giving her a moment to breathe, he asks, “And the rest of the ark?”</p><p>“Sarissa’s alive, she’s made it, they’ve saved hundreds of lives but so many- so many have-“ Another wave, and he puts a steadying arm around her back, letting her rest her body weight on him, “They need us.” She says and he knows she means this with all her soul. </p><p>“Let’s go.” </p><p>Vetra manages to make contact at the last second to grab Spender’s scrambler, and giving Kadara’s docks one last look, she climbs aboard the Tempest and they beam off, racing through the stars, a path to a ‘home’ that hasn’t seen them since the fateful first contact with the Charlatan by the Nexus. </p><p>Cora sits on her bunk, pulling at a handkerchief, sobered, solitude earned for a blow she felt even in her bones. The comfort of a ship filled with life keeps her heart from shattering into a thousand pieces, loss she barely recovered from when Alec entrusted their future to his son and left them all blundering in the dark. What does the Leusinia look like? Are its halls as terrible and grave as the Nexus’ were when they tried to keep even just its skeleton from disintegrating in the flames? How long have they been looking for assistance and how long have they been without a Pathfinder? It doubles her over to think about how lost she would have been without Ryder, without his courage to take on an emblem that she thought was just another rank when she first bled at its loss. How did Sarissa manage through the months of radio silence without Ishara? Cora can’t imagine. </p><p>She wipes fresh tears, notices something in her bunk shelf, a light on Ryder’s omni-tool and mechanically, she picks it up, opens the screen. Gliding off the bed, she walks through the bunks, to the armory and places the omni-tool onto the work bench. Silence curls its arms around her and she steadies her breath, grabbing a hammer from one of the many toolboxes. The anger follows her actions, blind, hurting, raw, and she raises her swing, determined. </p><p>“Cora.” </p><p>Whirling, hammer still in hand, she meets Vetra’s examining eyes. The grief bursts forth, the soul exposed and she goes to smash the omni-tool anyway, uncaring to the judgment of her companion. Grabbing her wrist, the hammer misses, clipping the table, Vetra earning a yank from the arm for her coming between the person and the object deemed culprit and Cora firmly commands, “Don’t stop me!” </p><p>“What’s going on?” Vetra asks, holding her back, holding her up after just a moment, the contact, the presence of another opening the flood. </p><p>“How many do we have to lose?” She sobs, hammer dropping out of her hand to precariously slam to the armory floor, her knees falling out. “How many are we going to watch die?” </p><p>Vetra bends down with Cora, sliding to the floor, letting them simply kneel to the cold metal. Her hands cup the woman’s elbows, her arms, an anchor in a sea of grief. For now, the Turian says nothing, and Cora covers her eyes with a hand, tears rushing, “It’s too much to handle anymore- a ‘hero’s death.’ I can’t lose anymore Pathfinders… he can’t take Ryder too!” </p><p>Glancing back to the omni-tool, Vetra quietly leans back and picks it up, opening the screen to the message. She reads the coordinates, a place on Kadara from Reyes Vidal. The time stamp is hours old. Fluidly, she glides the device into a back pocket, a pouch for various items and returns her attention to the misdirected emotion, a blind hostility that merely covers a deep, resonating fear of loss. The teams before this one, the comfort of a mission to prove she is not alone in this universe, none of that has cut close to the bustling home of the Tempest. More than a joined contract with a clear cut task, more than a timed delegation that has borders, boundaries, these are Cora’s earned brothers and sisters, a makeshift family fighting for survival. Her idols, the rank above hers, they’re personal, they sustain a trust in the pursuit of the label ‘hero,’ one that is finally beginning to seem hallow and isolating in comparison to earned family bonds.  </p><p>Cora Harper, no blood siblings, no parents left, and Vetra, if she didn’t have Sid, is acutely aware she would be in a very different position. Here, she has everyone, a brother in Ryder, and a goal in her admiration for Matriarchs like Sarissa and Ishara. To lose them, to watch the Initiative slowly burn through its own Pathfinders, it all to break apart, reasons the animosity to a dangerous man vying for a place in Ryder’s circle, pulling apart her world that she trusts in its gold veins and sturdy principles. Vetra gently pulls Cora into a hug, holding her, and thinks of her baby sister who used to cry about their father, and softly she pats out the long holding dread that has kept Cora so fiercely protective over her Pathfinder. They don’t say anything more, merely ride out the distance between here and the Nexus and trust the other will be the tether in the dark emptiness of a starry sky to pull them home when duty yanks them far into cold space. </p><p>Battle awaits them, the Leusinia and the Nexus exposed to danger, sitting with all its vulnerabilities out and ready to be punctured. Decimation, a Kett warship looms, the predator, striking terror in the civilians and giving a clear indicator to the higher ups that flirting with the possibility of hiding in space is no longer an option against their enemy. </p><p>Team Pathfinder rushes to the militia office where they are met by assumed Pathfinder Sarissa and Pathfinder Avitus Rix and Kandros who is relaying defense strategies to his units and organizing quick efficient groups to secure all personal who are not military. Red swirls around them, transforming the well-maintained halls of their society into a terrifying warning that they may return to a wasteland. Ryder grabs Avitus’ hand and they look at one another with intensity. </p><p>“Glad you could be here.” Ryder says, a serious and genuine respect in his tone, and Avitus’ says back, “Hope you’ll show me the ropes.” His words are softer, laying overtop the hole where Macen lives on in, and tell of bravery, the courage to take on the final lasting promise his lover left that will tie him forever with his death. </p><p>Sarissa stares hard, waiting, tense, her armor already pulled on, helmet ready and gun on her hip. She has the weight of the last several months set in her expression, the line of her shoulders, nerves that haven’t known rest for weeks and she says, “We don’t have much time. The Decimation isn’t going to wait for us to be ready.”</p><p>“Update us on the situation.” Ryder agrees, “Give us all the important details.”</p><p>“Captain Atrandra is still on Leusinia, vowing to protect the ark till the final moment. They’ve fought tooth and nail to get here so I’m laying out all our battleships.” Kandros says over the command module swirling with light and the map of his teams’ positions. </p><p>“How did you manage to finally get the ark away from the Decimation?”</p><p>“That would be me.” A voice says cautiously from behind Kandros where an Asari stands from a seat and raises her hand. “Vederia Damali, Sarissa’s second in command. I.. restored power enough to fuel the FTL and managed to find the coordinates from an old data well that hadn’t been wiped in the chaos.” </p><p>Sarissa eyes flash like steel, “If we had had a bit more time, I <em>would</em> have managed to decipher the data.” She stares down the light eyed Asari who takes a step back toward her seat. There’s strain, an argument had but left for the judgment made and agitation for it. </p><p>“You did a good job.” Ryder says, and Vederia softens, shows a small but sensible pride and nods in shy thanks. Redirection comes quick, Sarissa adding her own account of the situation. </p><p>“Pathfinder Ishara died trying to negotiate with those Kett bastards.” She says, clenching her helmet tighter in her hand, “That’s why I took something precious from them too. I stole a module containing tactical data.” Her facials behind her angled markings transform and Cora’s brow pinches in confusion. “All their secret routes, all their expeditions tracked, information that could change the tides. I had it all laid out, ready to prove we could win by their own tactics.” A vicious pride, a snarl in a half grin held back, and an expression unfit for a grieving Tiamna or a leader with someone as capable as Vederia saving their hundreds and hundreds of civilians makes a beloved champion’s face strange, foreign and Cora feels her spine go icy. </p><p>Her hero, her assembled guidance and clarity, the edges are all wrong, too sharp for the wise and caring words of a Matriarch vowing to protect and defend. </p><p>The Nexus rumbles, and over the speakers, a buzz sounds violently. Ryder looks over his shoulder to the installed audio system, a voice coming through harsh, vengeful, “I am the Valiant. You creatures of lesser quality have disrespected me and the Archon for the final time. Your pathetic attempts to avoid the inevitable will only bring you elongated suffering.”</p><p>“Is it just me or have they improved their speech relays?” Peebee whispers behind them to Liam who feels the chill of the implications this has. He nods briefly, the air tight with their situation, “And they know how to access our systems.”</p><p>The whole Nexus is filled with the voice, pounding through their walls, reverberating into the high ceilings, and filling rooms no longer housing its people who are all hidden and cowering. Kandros steels himself as they are all forced to listen. </p><p>“You cannot steal from the Archon even with great sacrifice. It is impossible to outsmart the evolved. We will suck you dry of your meager individualities and evaporate you from this universe. Dust to dust.” </p><p>The line cuts with a crackle, shutting off the sound systems, proving their security walls mere doors. </p><p>Sarissa slams the order station with a fist, “To hell with them! I’ll never let the data go!” Her outburst grabs everyone, Vederia clenching her hands on her lap and Avitus who tenses seeing the rage, the brittle line they walk above the gator pit. Silence begs for someone to smooth the tension, the underlying concerns that grip each of them in their own ways. Sarissa heaves, tightening the fist and Cora offers, “Remember your manuals. Breathe, purpose, action.” </p><p>The Asari Pathfinder gives her a harsh consideration, a once up, sizing her, but cools considerably, like the reminder flash freezes her veins.</p><p>“I’ve served with Asari commandos. Memorized all your battle manuals.” Cora clarifies and at this the Asari turns her chin up then stalks by, barely missing Cora’s shoulder and says thinly, “I have my purpose. The Decimation is going up in flames.”</p><p>Cora watches her back, everything narrowing onto the stride of a Pathfinder thought lost to the stars, an Asari powerful, in a title that has earned such high respect. In a different timeline, she herself might’ve followed that back, been a second in command to such a renowned soldier instead of being a part of the Tempest team. She is startled by a sudden approach, slightly shell shocked, unable to approach the joy of standing before a much respected Matriarch who built the foundation to her navigation on the field with the circumstance and the harsh reality of her differences. Vederia gently looks at her, and indicates to Sarissa, “Captain Atranda’s been extremely critical of Sarissa’s manuals, and of her choice to take the data. She believes it’s the reason the Decimation hasn’t stopped pursuing us..” </p><p>“The Kett killed Matriarch Ishara during negotiations?” Jaal speaks up, “Were they willing to talk of a deal? We have history proving the Kett never hold to any bargain.” </p><p>Vederia’s expression falls, “I’m not sure. We were separated in the chaos, the communications were cut off and by the time we were together again, Sarissa told us Ishara had fallen and we needed to escape. But then our lower levels were overrun by Kett and it took everything we had just to keep them at bay and the ark in tact enough to hold together for the many still sleeping on board. We weren’t able to access the recordings of the deal with all the damage.” </p><p>They stand, processing this a moment. Vederia dabs her eyes quickly, the smoke of their hallways lingering in her senses, residual terror pressing her chest, death snarling from below, promising its bullet for even the innocent. Chaos, fire, bloodshed and a last defense of a people unaware their dreams going into a hellstorm. </p><p>“When did you lose Ishara?” </p><p>“Not long after we were discovered by the Valiant. It all happened so fast...” Vederia breathes, her mind’s eye vivid to the suffocating loss of a leader impenetrable until that point. </p><p>“So when did Sarissa have time to steal the data?” Vetra wonders out loud and Cora’s stomach tumbles, free falling out of a sky, the shooting star with no wish. Nobody answers, because none of their potential answers make for a pretty picture and Kandros eventually says, “We’ll discuss this later. For now, we need to get out there.” </p><p>While Kandros’ battle force demands the attention of the Decimation’s offenses, the human Pathfinder team joins Sarissa and Vederia, taking with them Avitus to help fortify the defenses of the Leusinia. Captain Atandra nods to them somberly, but the hopeful sheen of her eye betrays the serious pinch of her brow. </p><p>“I might see the light at the end of this dark nightmare of a tunnel.” She says gravely, uniform still rightfully in tact even with its stains of old blood and residue from the sufferings of her ship. She keeps her stance strong, unyielding like their fight against submitting to the pursuing devil sneering from the looming shadows. The dark windows of her command room show the bleak path their captain has stared into for months but finally now she is able to look upon Ryder, their lifeline. </p><p>“Matriarch Ishara would have mourned the loss of your father, Pathfinder.” She says after a moment, eyes serious, “Your youth doesn’t prevent your successes though, so I consider you blessed. It seems losing Pathfinders is an unavoidable tragedy that has hit all our arks.” </p><p>Sarissa tenses beside Cora, and the glimpse of her expression behind her helmet seems severe, focused, like a blade. She doesn’t say anything, but her energy is brimming, flooding out onto the bridge. They’ve fought here, in this very place, for survival, for the right course when all the outside blackness promises is destruction by the Scourge or the Kett’s brutal concept of victory. </p><p>“We’ve got massive damage in the lower hull of the ship. It’s left us with a bullseye and while our shield boosters have managed to deflect their attempts to destroy the Leusinia from the inside out, we no longer have the power to provide that kind of security. We need the reinforcements there.”</p><p>Ryder nods, “We’ll take out the remaining infiltrating Kett as we go. Until Kandros gets a good hold on their blasters, we’ll hold them off.” </p><p>They agree to split, travel the ark by multiple paths, cover more ground through the dark halls of a society not even given its first foothold so Cora joins Sarissa and Vederia, her experience with Asari formation and battle sequences allowing her easy transition. Ryder nods her off, and for a brief moment she hesitates, his side her place but Sarissa calls her name and she follows into the belly of the transformed beast. Vederia is still fresh, still learning, a residual shyness ensnaring her intelligence in the face of seniority. Unlike her first in command, who walks with strides unaffected by the carnage, walks with an aggressive purpose, she hesitates to cross over the proof of a lost life and freezes when the damage tells of death. Her heart absorbs the shock, and even though she managed to crawl through the ducts of her own ship and force the FTL into overdrive in order to protect and serve her people, she still sheds tears freely at each corner. </p><p>Cora offers her words, the ones she expected Sarissa to give, and she is met with commending wonder. Does it get easier? She asks softly, does it get easier to breathe? </p><p>The rank that should have given her the stone walls for continuing on like Sarissa are so harsh, so unlike the Tiamna she pictured when she imagined a bond between first and second. She thinks on it, puts a gentle hand to the Asari’s back to help motivate and she slowly comes off the wall where she was leaning. No, Cora finally says, but we learn how to keep going. This is Ryder’s way, not to harden, not to become distant to each loss, but to fight to hold them close, and while she thought all this time it was Sarissa’s lead, she is beginning to see what her time on the Tempest has given her. </p><p>They bleed the ship of its parasites, shoot and cover each other, Sarissa’s orders clear, distinct and a time machine into a world Cora Harper once thought comforting. The concern is bred into a soldier, the concept of team only holding because the mission is impossible to do alone. Sarissa may have spoken about obligation, but hers feels so cold, just like her home ship. She is powerful, has a grip on her biotics that proves violent and beautiful, hands like that of a cruel Goddess of war. Hallways with burn marks, flames still clinging to the oxygen and blown through ceilings dropping their insides lead into research rooms half disintegrated and flipped over to doors upon doors of unused, locked potential. The damage in the hull leads into the stars, and from the opposite side of the large lab with its windows for mapping the stars blown out, revealing the hole in Leusinia’s body, comes Ryder and his team. He throws several hand signals, leading them, earning the trusted yes sirs and Cora’s heart leaps into her throat. </p><p>That is her reason, not just any Pathfinder, not just any bodyguard position, not just any ‘hero.’ She trusted without a second thought he would make it here to meet them but to see him again reminds her of how long they’ve gone without being apart, and how much she relied on his style of guiding leadership. </p><p>“Decimation is sending down units!” Sarissa calls out, voice strong, “No hesitation!” </p><p>Kett drop out of the sky like spiders, harsh angles to their limbs, joints formed like carved out of stone and eyes from the seventh ring of Hell, no soul left in the glistening stare. They shoot upon visuals and through the bullets, the roar of war, Cora loses sight of her team, ducked behind a counter terminal with Vederia who squeezes her hand to her chest, eyes clenched shut to the nightmare raging around them. </p><p>“You can do this, commando.” Cora says, taking the hand and putting it to Vederia’s rifle, “You trained for this.”</p><p>Their eyes meet, the fear of a fresh soldier shining back, and Cora suddenly knows, intensely how well Ryder’s protected his team, how well he’s honed the strength to never waver, to always have an answer. She breathes in, leads Vederia in the action and says firmly, “Last stretch.”</p><p>“Last stretch.” Vederia echoes and jerks a nod. They stand, aiming, blowing blood out of enemies, shields blocking shots. After the waves of invaders descending into their opened ribcage bring forth no tangible end, the Decimation proves impatient. The Valiant’s pod takes to the skies, easily avoiding the battle ships, sharply maneuvering toward their battle. </p><p>“It’s been a long couple of months.” Sarissa hisses, boot crunching the broken throat of a Kett she has suffering a final breath beneath her, “I’ve been waiting for this.” She reloads her weapon, snapping it into ready position, standing in the makings of a graveyard, a place gripped by consequence both daring and vicious, bloodthirsty and vulgar in vengeances just as personal as historical. </p><p>Floating through technology, defenses swirling like poisonous gas, the Valiant shows little emotion besides the snarl of a predator ready to tear the throat out of its hunted prey and disgust. “Puny creature.” He says, his army waiting, statues of war, no thoughts of their own, guns trained for orders, “You may have caught the Kett off guard with your sacrifice early on but here we have you trapped. Unless you plan to offer up the rest of your pathetic race, then you will perish like the rest. The data will be destroyed just like this depreciating relic of a ship.” </p><p>Sarissa raises her gun, shooting through a Kett soldier, and she roars, “Take it from me!” Her biotics flash with power, and she demands, “Harper, cover me!” The order has Cora vulnerable but she embraces the chance, shooting the device protecting the Valiant, creating his force field. The Kett begin firing, and as the bullets blow her shields away, she awaits the sting of flesh torn. Ryder finds her side, covering her body with his own shield, his shot gun blasting one Kett over a dark console and he commands, “Don’t let up!” </p><p>Avitus headshots Kett from above, Vetra tossing a grenade that allows Ryder to pull Cora down by the shoulders behind his barrier. They meet eyes and he says, “Kandros says they’ve almost taken the first barrier out on the Decimation. They’ll be weak if we take out the Valiant, and it’ll give us a chance to hit them where it hurts.”</p><p>Following the footsteps, learning the methods, perfecting the manuals, she repeats her methods as she watches him stand, leap over into the smoke and blast through more Kett, take on the forward march into danger. He would never put her out on the front without his presence. Sarissa has the Valiant on the retreat, her bloodlust enormous, a trail of venom from the first decision that brought their fates together till her imploding his shields and knocks him to his back. </p><p>Vederia turns, Cora watching intensely, and Ryder gives Kandros a message through his omni-tool of success on their end. The room is cold with space, and pinpointed, all centered on one war general and a supposed bodyguard raised to hero. </p><p>“You will pay! You will fall to the Decimation! Destroy the ark, blow everything away-“ The Valiant begins but Sarissa’s grip on him with her biotics lifts his body and blasts him into space, sucking his voice into a thin whisp of its former terror. The missiles fire, glowing with flames and Sarissa steadies her stance, unyielding in the face of a terrible death. </p><p>“Harper! Vederia!” She demands, lifting both hands. By her idol’s side, Cora raises her own hands, Vederia on the other side and they build a shield, growing its glowing defense, beaming it larger, larger, creating the wall their ship can no longer manage. First it is merely a thin control for damage, barely capable of keeping them alive and hardly a means for the rest of the Leusinia to survive. Sweat beads on Cora’s lower back, her knees trembling. Sarissa doesn’t falter, the limits of her power deep, a well that seems bottomless. Vederia gasps, presses harder, lowering her head and the sounds that would normally chase the missiles is lost in space, only leaving them with the looming power of silence and streaks of danger approaching. </p><p>“Push!” Sarissa booms, and they give the orb a boost, expanding it further, further, enveloping the Leusinia, deflecting the first missile with a satisfying ripple that has it reflecting back toward the Decimation. Cora drops to a knee, spine hot, a knife through butter, shoulders aching, but she doesn’t release, letting each reverberating ping of a missile remind her where she is, who she is proving herself to. They fight each bomb, turn away the efforts to burn away their resilience again and again, and as missiles shatter Kett device, Kandros’ squad fires clean lines through the command centers and engines, and an explosion happens like a faraway star, not a noise to be had, even with the closeness that could scorch them without their soldiers providing the biotic wall. </p><p>Rubble spirals out randomly, a sea of debris and conquest that has them breathing carefully lest the Decimation prove to somehow rise from its own grave. Slowly they free themselves from the need to shield the hole and Vederia collapses to her knees, clutching her numbed fingers in thanks. Cora can feel all her nerves, even the bottom of her feet tingling, and she tries to bring the sensations back into her arms, shaking them out, pride still rising to swoop over her. </p><p>Sarissa claps her on the shoulder, nods sharply, “Good work.” And still the pride doesn’t rush Cora’s chest, the fantasy of her dedication to years of modeling the perfect soldier to hear these words lackluster with the businesslike exchange. Sarissa would say this to any biotic user capable of helping her finish her own mission, and while appreciation is personal on her side, it is only returned for her devotion to following orders. The hero she aspired to be, the raw ego of months and months of scraping by and finally proving herself capable is not the polished Matriarch who holds her arms open to take others beneath her wings. </p><p>Lights boom on, the machines still connected, not uprooted by the fighting and destruction flashing. </p><p>Cora shivers, a cool sensation going beneath her skin and she trembles again, suddenly unable to stop. Vederia comes to her side, puts an arm around her like she did when they walked the hallways and her body relaxes. </p><p>“We did it, Cora.” </p><p>Quickly, for reassurance she can give not only to herself but also to this less experienced soldier, Cora sweeps the area for her Pathfinder, and finds him tapping a quick finger across a control board. He’s talking, but when he notices her staring, he hits her with a thumbs up and finally she feels ready to accept the pride, the fragile satisfaction that has her heart as damaged as the Leusinia. </p><p>“We did.” She agrees softly, and wraps her own arm around the Asari. </p><p>The hallways finally lit, power being routed not to keep disasters trapped or out, they can see the outline of a home, and Captain Atandra awaits their arrival with a cocked grin that looks as rare as their success looked against the odds. </p><p>“If you had told me when this started we were going to make it out by the final missile, I might’ve laughed in disbelief.” </p><p>Sarissa mutters, “And she doesn’t laugh easily.”</p><p>The Captain shakes hands with Avitus and Ryder, and nods deeply to Vederia, “Sarissa couldn’t have asked for a better second in command.” </p><p>Vederia turns glowing eyes to Cora and she says, “The Human Pathfinder team gave me courage.”</p><p>Cora’s heart swells, the sails of her soul rising with fresh wind and she accepts the acknowledgement with grace. </p><p>“With the ship now able to risk the power redistribution, we can finally log into the old files and map out the chaos that began what feels like centuries ago.” Captain Atandra says, walking up to her command center which is alight with options. </p><p>“Everything from then onward was destroyed with the Kett invasion.” Sarissa says bluntly, “There shouldn’t be anything left.”</p><p>Kandros calls and Ryder turns away to answer, Avitus following, spreading the team out. Vetra loosely folds her arms next to Liam, Drack getting contact from Kesh to which he also steps out of the range so to not distract with his low talking. </p><p>“Even if the second round of backups were corrupted, there’s the final level of backup that is connected to the gravity force. Now that we have gravity reestablished, it should’ve opened all the firewalls.” Vederia offers, and Sarissa whirls on her, “I’m telling you, I was there! What do we need-“</p><p>“Forget the data-“ A voice calls desperately on the speakers, “I need you- The barrier’s collapsing!“ The distress has everyone’s attention returning to the main console, a file opened by Atandra’s hand. Nobody moves, concern lighting their need to make sense of a voice that is wavering with desperation, fear, and a soul crushing amount of agony. </p><p>Another voice responds, hesitant but only for having to explain itself, “Ishara, they’ll tear the ark apart, I..” It’s clear who this voice is, and to who they are talking to. Sarissa stiffly holds to the exposure, her own words from months ago ripping open the poorly sewn wound of losing their Pathfinder back open, “That data is the only thing that might buy us time.”</p><p>Around them, the room chills, all other sound smothered lest they miss anything, the magnifying lens into the final torment that ultimately Ishara succumbed to. </p><p>The Asari SAM speaks up, “Kett reinforcements approaching, Pathfinder Ishara.”</p><p>Nobody can say a word, Captain Atandra’s back showing as much emotion while she bends over the command center as her face might and they all wait to hear what they long to believe is not true. </p><p>“Sarissa!” Ishara pleads, the static coming into the feed, but nothing is capable of hiding her anguish, “My SAM can’t- Tiamna, <em>please</em>!” She begs for her life, for a promise that should have come before all others. Faith meant to overcome even the loss of hope, the bodyguard to stand beside one even till the end, it all goes unanswered. </p><p>“I have to save them! Even if I can’t save-“ Her voice cuts, the distinction of a choice made, a choice made prior to whatever was going to happen to Ishara and Sarissa says lowly after a disturbing amount of awaited silence, “Forgive me.” </p><p>An emotional outcry bursts from Vederia, “You sacrificed Matriarch Ishara for that data!” Her voice hits the notes only the most visceral grieving emotions can, all energy, straight from the heart. “You let her die for intel we didn’t even understand!” </p><p>Blindsided, Ryder, Cora and Peebee all just stand dumbly looking on, shaken to the core and Captain Atandra grips the control panel, “All this devastation… you knew you were putting the entire ark at risk… you knew you were giving up one of our best soldiers, and for what? It took weeks just to understand what you had taken-“</p><p>“It was for our survival! What good is a Pathfinder when there’s no advantage? I saw the opportunity and I took it! This data could be the end of the entire war, not just one battle-“</p><p>Whirling around, Captain Atandra, burning fire in her eyes and the fury of the sun in the line of her mouth interrupts, “You broke a sacred trust for your telling of history. You tried to cover this cowardice in the chaos of war and rewrite your betrayal as bravery for your people. A Tiamna would never abandon her duty for a petty satisfaction such as fame. You are not fit for such a role and you are not worthy of being called a Pathfinder.” Grief weighs in, gripping tight onto her heart and while her fire had Sarissa flinching, she pulls back, greatly hurt. “When we board the Nexus, this will be dealt with. For now,” She looks out into the cold scattered remains of the Decimation and their honor, “We make sure our citizens are safe and the Leusinia is habitable.” She breathes, Sarissa standing like she might say something to change the tide, and finally finishes the conversation, “You disgrace us, Sarissa.” </p><p>The ride back is quiet, sullen, reflection consuming everyone’s thoughts. Clinging to relevance, to the need to be in charge, it consumed the commando, overwhelming a relationship meant to fuel the heart. Believing in the grandness of standing as a statue of glory, achievement singing praises not yet earned, Sarissa had forsaken the very thing that would have kept her soul intact. This is not the first person corrupted by intention to outsmart war and come out wealthy but the brutality still cleaves through their victory and leaves them all with a bruised heart. </p><p>Ryder finds her with her plants, gently spraying their leaves and he knocks, allowing her the right to ask to be alone. </p><p>“Hey.” Cora answers softly. </p><p>“Everyone’s disembarked. Kal’s waiting to pull the Tempest into the service line.”</p><p>Slowly putting down her bottle, she only manages to sit in her desk chair, “Oh.”</p><p>The light beaming from her small terrarium and balancing the shadow strongly takes over the room, the overhead light left off, a safety measure to deter examination. He pulls up another chair and sits backwards coming in close, the light on his back, gleaming over his shoulders. His presence gives her the right to talk about it, even if she doesn’t think she wants to. </p><p>“I guess I never really knew her.” It slips free, and hurts more than she thought it would. Expectation cruel, a hope that can only outline all the disappointments, the naivety in a youth tied assumption which she had yet to watch collide with reality till now comes barreling down. “I put so much faith in Sarissa. I believed there was a point where it all came naturally, the altruism, the maturity, the leadership. If you earned the rank, then..” She feels it tightening in her chest all over again, painful, vivid grief stabbing her and a meld of remorse, “Then you deserved to be there. You knew what you were doing. But the Asari were just as lost as we were.” She glances for him, worries she’s hurt him too deeply to be allowed his counsel and sees his caring hazel eyes watching patiently. </p><p>She puts a hand to rising tears and turns away to give herself some privacy, “I’m sorry.” He lets her pull a tissue free from the shelf over her workspace, doesn’t rush her feelings. The clock on her wall ticks on Eos time.  </p><p>“Can I tell you something?” Her voice is small, like how she feels, the single child of parents she can no longer confide in. The young soldier who thought her mentor was untouchable and was dealt the blow of his untimely death too early. The second in command who didn’t know how to stop a universe from collapsing but desperately wanted the opportunity to prove she was ready to be called ‘hero.’ </p><p>“Anything.” </p><p>It’s a confession she didn’t believe for the longest time. It punished him, and her, and made her cruel with her standards made for a young, powerful girl trying for approval to become the defender she always thought would earn her the right to stand proud for the strengths she had. “The old man was right to choose you as Pathfinder instead.” Her chest breathes, and since the words don’t catch she continues, “On the Leusinia, while we were separated, I realized how much you do for our team, how you take care of everyone and still lead us with such optimism. I don’t blaze a trail. I always look for the mentor, their plan..</p><p>“I thought a hero had to be perfect. I forced you and Sarissa into that standard. And that worked, because I didn’t have to see Sarissa as just another soldier, she was an ideal, she was her beautiful battle manuals and stories from places I was never a part of and yet sounded courageous and what every commando dreams about. But facing the Decimation and watching how far Sarissa was willing to go to keep her status, I see me.” She wipes a fresh burst of tears, the rolling waves of regret and sorrow. </p><p>“Cora..” He says, leaning in, “You and Sarissa are not the same. She lied without a second thought. She was able to watch Ishara be killed in order to secure her concept of glory. She even put her ark at risk. You have been on the frontlines protecting our people since the beginning.”</p><p>“No, Ryder, I haven’t. I’ve thrown all kinds of people away. I’ve rejected so much because I thought- I thought there was a definite right and wrong. I really did fall victim to the shiny picture painted by the Initiative. You were right, I’ve been protecting glory, ‘heroism’ and watching people die for it. Me as a Pathfinder? My mistakes would be worse than Sarissa’s.” The next breath comes with pain, and a fresh tissue takes the wet from her cheeks, “I look in the mirror and all I see is her, the unyielding leader who wins battles at any cost, the Pathfinder who could walk over the fallen and give up even her closest allies..”</p><p>He hears her, looks into her light brown eyes, the fall of an idol still fresh, and the subsequent consequences that Sarissa hadn’t considered. Ryder stands up, and offers her a hand, “C’mere.” </p><p>She looks at him, eyes still blurry and slowly stands. He pulls her into a hug, and says, “You would never do that to any of us here on the Tempest.”</p><p>She wraps her arms around his warm body, insides blown out thinking how she might have already thrown Ryder beneath the tearing wheels of the Initiative once now on a balcony far from here. His beating heart answers hers, and she wonders if this is how a sibling would have felt, a brother she’s been blessed with by Alec’s kind favor to her talents giving her space even when she tore him apart. She holds him tighter, pressing her face into his shirt and a wave of thankfulness washes the shores of her self-reproach and guilt. </p><p>“Ryder..” She murmurs, “I feel a hell of a lot better with you here.”</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere.” He says, and when they separate, she feels the swell of her trust in him. Could she rely on that enough to alter an old truth from her beginnings? Could she let him soften her critical eye and find a hero in anyone, when she built her spirit around brutal moral sacrifice?</p><p>He nods her along and she squeezes the tissues in her palm, tight, tighter and then tosses them into her trashcan. The first step would be not to cast Sarissa as a villain and in a strange hopeful sense, Cora thinks she can do that, the pedestals that were so high around her, creating a forest for the trees she couldn’t tell who was who finally lowering to show her soldiers all just like her. A mirror in failings, a mirror in victories, she won’t chop the trees down for a booming impact but replant the seeds. </p><p>Captain Atandra approves Vederia’s succession of Sarissa’s title, agreeing to discharge the Asari with as little ripple as possible. They won’t be able to prevent the information leaking through, but none of them know how smart the flies on the walls have gotten. The Nexus is bustling with activity, celebration for the victory over an entire warship that has Avitus finally smiling with his eyes, turning to Ryder with an uncertain but joyful delight. He shakes hands with citizens, unable to stop, following the line and says with a note in his voice that wasn’t there previously, “There’s a line all the way to the cafeteria!”</p><p>Ryder’s eyes crinkle, “If you aren’t careful you’ll be doing this all day.”</p><p>Vederia looks nervous in her Pathfinder uniform, bearing the weight of her predecessors and the demand of her new title but her cheeks show color and she looks at her allies, the lover who answered a message waiting just for him in the dark of a lost ship and the young son who was elevated to the challenge by the love of his father’s helmet. They beckon her close and her beaming smile proves even in the darkest hours, hope can be reborn and she approaches with a hop in her step. </p><p>Director Tann offers to front the questions and stand between them and the press, Knight’s trial, Spender’s jailing, Sarissa’s dishonorable discharge all attracting the hungry eyes and need for answers, whatever the use of them will be. </p><p>The toll of battle, the long day with no rest is finally catching up to them, exhaustion, time for themselves essential and everyone goes their own way, Cora to her apartment, Peebee to the research labs, Drack to Kesh. Ryder finds himself in his father’s apartment, his inherited space basically untouched since Alec Ryder lived. His fingers ghost along the physical books his father swore by, trying to follow the line of the man’s thoughts, the history, the attention paid for better decisions. The quiet is abnormal, too peaceful, too easy, and while he’s become used to faintly hearing his crew outside his quarters, here he is totally alone. </p><p>Sitting on the bed, he takes in this one moment he has, lets it wash over him. If he could sleep, he might, but his nerves are still buzzing, and he can tell just by sitting here, his thoughts would run him in circles. But it’s the one, the one always there, in the background, lingering, just like the person himself that attracts the most attention.  </p><p>“Hey, SAM..”</p><p>“Yes, Pathfinder.”</p><p>“Do you..” He glances to the bedside table where a picture of Ellen sits, in her white coat, minimally smiling, glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose, “Can you trace Reyes’ omni-tool?”</p><p>“I have all our contacts saved in case you needed any of them. His is recorded in my memory base. Would you like me to call him?” </p><p>Turned away eyes, a repeating blow, the still faintly burning cigarette between fingers. Silence when he begged for even a scheming crafted answer. It hurts to find the memory unsoured and everlasting. His mind’s eye can still take him there, the view across a city without fear and a man chuckling handsomely, resting on the railing above the world he saw potential in and revived from a half dead march toward a second destruction. Only a tilt away, Ryder ghosts his hand up his own arm just to relive some phantom of their closeness, a reminder of the careful, exact touch Reyes had leaned into him. When he had called after Spender’s betrayal, he thought the voice that had talked to him across the stars was reassuring, proof that there was something there, something more than an allegiance for the advantages. Guilelessly believing the man when he told him to let him lead, he hadn’t asked where he was being led. </p><p>“No,” He sighs, standing up, “I was just.. checking.”</p><p>Stripping down, he pulls together some casual clothing, tired of hearing nothing but the faint buzz of a monitor and spiraling visits of their last couple days. His ride down to the medical unit has him smiling, forcing pleasantries when all he wants to do is sit quietly and watch the dark tunnels go by. For access to Sara’s room, he checks with the head nurse for visitation and Dr. Carlyle meets him there. </p><p>“It’s good to see you.” He’s aged from when Ryder’s last seen him, the lines of crow’s feet more distinct, and his eyebrows hold a lingering pensive shape, hair salt and peppered. His smile is genuine, although muted from the daring researcher who used to come by with a box of donuts from the local shops and a mess of paperwork. </p><p>“It’s been a while.” Ryder says, and it’s meant as an apology to Sara but Dr. Carlyle dismisses it graciously with a graceful tilt of his head and minimal raise of his fingers. They enter the room, machines beeping steadily, lights low for resting until their movement brightens them automatically. </p><p>Finding a seat beside his sister’s bed, Ryder looks on at her deceptively peaceful face and hopes it is dreams, pretty places either of possible futures or the best of their memories keeping her company. </p><p>“She’s stayed stable, plenty of brain activity as well. It might have everything to do with the implant.” </p><p>Ryder feels the ridges of his scars on his face, a jerk reaction and says, “I should be here more, I should be working alongside you all-“</p><p>“I’m sorry, I jumped into it.” Dr. Carlyle quickly backtracks, “I didn’t say it to imply anything. I was actually hoping it would give you some comfort. She’s fine. You’re doing everything you can, and so is she.”</p><p>The accountability that’s had him spread thin across even the furthest political issues and situations begs him to make a way the Pathfinder can fix this as well, be the answer to the problem. He searches her face, the faded scar in her eyebrow that she got falling off a bike when they were in school, and the scatter of faint freckles like his own, her hair that she was always changing, short, long, one color one day, another the next smooth around her face and sees nothing a soldier from the frontlines can do. </p><p>“This isn’t your fault, Ryder.” </p><p>He blinks, pulled out of his racing thoughts and glances to the doctor who sits down in the other seat across the bed. </p><p>“I know that look. It’s been years since I’ve seen it, but I know what you’re thinking.”</p><p>It almost sounds like a parent and Ryder’s heart rises into his throat. He stares at the doctor, hoping for just a bit more, something to conceive some strength from. </p><p>“If you and Sara happened to be in each other’s places, you wouldn’t like to think she’d sit here and feel guilty, would you?” </p><p>He lets the tension go slightly and says, “No.” </p><p>The man folds his weathered hands over his stomach, “Let’s just talk. It’s been a while since you came and told us about one of your adventures. The one where you and Peebee meet still makes me chuckle.”</p><p>Ryder considers this, looks at his hands, the way they wring each other and says with a phantom of a smile, “Did I tell you about Suvi’s snacks for one of our movie nights?” </p><p>Eyes lighting up in interest, Dr. Carlyle guesses, “Brilliant mind but in the kitchen-“</p><p>“A nightmare.” They both say and laugh. Ryder talks of their simpler times, avoiding the scars, the tears, the turbulent ups and downs that put each of them in places they thought might consume them. Stories that hold him together when the responsibility threatens to break him apart. He suddenly stops, catching himself from bringing up his time beneath Kadara’s surface, of a place he didn’t realize he felt such pride in, a place just for him, a place about Ryder and his personal victories. A place with the man he wanted more than anything, a desire so consuming it had him ready to accept even his darkest parts that scared him in other circumstances. </p><p>Dr. Carlyle looks at him, the blossom of expression finally open on his face and how desperately Ryder wants to ask about a pilot he once cleared for the Andromeda project. What did Reyes Vidal look like to you? Do I know anything about the mysterious man behind the Collective truly or am I just another deceived access point for the next project? </p><p>He holds Sara’s hand tighter but doesn’t ask, more afraid of hearing further slander than clinging to his delusions that still favor him despite the harm they do. </p><p>In the hallway, passing nurses and doctors talking lowly over datapads, Dr. Carlyle looks over the son of his fallen comrade and makes sure not to let his own emotions keep him from offering comfort. He squeezes Ryder’s upper arm, “Don’t be a stranger. Before you go, I know Lexi is your primary care but how are your headaches? Are you allowing your mind the rest it needs between relying on the implant?”</p><p>“I’m fine. Nothing I can’t handle.” </p><p>“She says you’re pushing it.” The doctor edges cautiously and Ryder thinks about the euphoria after letting everything go, letting himself pummel the rage, the grief out in a bright ring underneath Kadara. A too brief relief proving validity in its necessity. He can’t even find the defensiveness that normally would have him deflecting further, mute to the curling pit in his stomach thinking how he’ll never be that raw and accepted again. “Finding other coping strategies is important, or you’ll wear yourself out.”</p><p>“I know.” He says honestly, trying not to think too hard about the man looking out the grimy window into the underground city who never ever flinched at his darkness and ferocity. “Take care of Sara for me.”</p><p>“Of course.” Dr. Carlyle agrees and he lets Ryder go.</p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>“Are you listening, Pathfinder?”</p><p>Ryder’s chin in hand, he doesn’t respond, sitting with his legs crossed, white slacks neatly capturing the length of his leg to a dark sock and dress shoes. Mind elsewhere, the last few weeks a blur of pretending to be pulled together, and trying not to react to the public demands on Knight’s progressing case and his status with SAM as well as questions about their progress on the data only beg for his distraction. It’s getting harder and harder to feign submissive politeness to the hoops they want him to jump when there’s no longer a reward waiting on the other end. </p><p>Director Tann saunters over to stand above him, shadow finally pulling hazel eyes out of their distance. </p><p>“I’ve been talking to you, Pathfinder.”</p><p>Ryder glances to Vederia and Avitus also sitting in the Director’s upper office and says, “There are three Pathfinders here. You could practice distinction.” </p><p>“Doesn’t change the fact that you weren’t listening.” </p><p>Ryder sighs, unfolding his legs and sits up in his chair, “And? Was there an actual development on the data cache? Or is this another summary of yesterday’s findings?”</p><p>Avitus covers a laugh with a cough and Director Tann scowls, trying to recover his serious and high brow tone, “Any day now, really any hour, we’ll have our answers.”</p><p>“I’m not doing another press conference.” Ryder warns, “That’s all these last few weeks has been, sitting in front of the cameras or waiting in your office.”</p><p>Sensing impertinence in the place of desired obedience, Director Tann walks slowly back and forth, “Don’t forget you answer to me, Pathfinder. We still have your case of possible insubordination unfiled on my desk.”</p><p>He earns the flash of hostility that Ryder can’t mask but doesn’t yank the leash again, letting it go loose once more, “Merely a reminder of what’s important. Our main focus should be the Paarchero. I know she’s out there. We can’t risk blindly flying through space after our run in with the Decimation..” </p><p>Anger enticed, Ryder turns his gaze away, tapping his finger on the chair arm. Vederia has her hands folded into her lap, glancing timidly between everyone. Director Tann continues talking, relaying the mission, the ideal he wants for more than anything. A message beeps below, Tann’s secretary calling up, “Report arriving from the tech labs! Looks important!”</p><p>“See?” Tann breathes, trying not to sound too excited, and he hurries to open the file at the swirling terminal instead of his personal desk. His expression falls, searching the numbers that are clearly just a bill from hydroponics and his secretary calls, “Sorry, it’s a bit of a big file, it should be there now!” </p><p>His frown is evident, but quickly he flips to the next file, impatient. It unfolds, a spray of data points connecting across a clear map, one of Andromeda’s stars. Each point is labeled a name, and the Pathfinders rise from their seats to get a closer look. Scanning the tracked paths, the peek into a system complicated and expertly controlled, Avitus points, “Look! This is labeled as a foreign ship. It’s with a Kett ship called the Verakan.” They all come in close. </p><p>Director Tann’s eyes widen and he whispers, awestruck, “That must be the Paarchero!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. The Archon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What pulls one through the worst of times when everything seems hopeless?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's officially been a year since I started Starlight! Thank you to everyone who has supported this work so far. I've enjoyed reimagining the missions and bulking up details, and I'm glad I'm able to share this! </p><p>Replaying Andromeda the second time for a better understanding to write Starlight, I realized how many missions and how long we spend away from Reyes and I'm happy for what I've been able to create for Kadara in this work. It's a bittersweet sensation finishing missions that involve him knowing Ryder must do so much more after leaving the Port and I hope that feeling is present here in Starlight too! It makes us treasure what we didn't realize was so special and anticipate the next meeting all the more. </p><p>Reading all your comments, not only do I feel immensely thankful that you all write such thoughtful and beautiful words to my imaginings in Andromeda, but I hold such great respect at how well you all build this world and the characters within it. So much inspiration and so much of the oncoming situations for Starlight have been talked about in your comments and I want to say, I hope you stay with me until the end! I would love to see my ending predicted before I get there! Haha! Thank you all so, so much. </p><p>I'm sorry to say this is a whump chapter for Ryder. I would LOVE to talk about the Archon, I have a lot of thoughts about his character (and disappointments for the quality of his presence in the game as a villain and arch nemesis) and have developed him and the scene on his ship to more what I would have liked to see. Did you all think the Archon was flat? Too evil to even see a personality in the minimal interactions with him? I prefer a bit more nuance! (: Anyways, enough from me! Enjoy the chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In and out, in and out. Focus, sharpening, his gloves sliding on, armor locking into place. Synchronization, he can feel each muscle, knows every fiber of his outfit, down to the exact weight, to all of his items he carries on his person. His helmet stares at him, the visor blank except for the blur of the room, the very image on the massive banners rotating the Nexus commons, anonymously valorous, the faceless hero who could have been anyone at one point but now can be no one but him. </p><p>“We’re almost cleared for takeoff.” Vetra says from the doorway of the airlock, Ryder turning to the sound of her voice. The world rushes back in, open lines to Avitus’ and Vederia’s ship feeding their status buzzing down from the meeting room, Kallo and Suvi reading off Tempest stats with fluidity. The lights above, his open locker of suit parts, the polished creation of his survivals and his father’s helmet to remind him why he stands here still. </p><p>“Thanks.” He answers, setting his chest plate. </p><p>They walk to the bridge where Liam is leaning against the open doorway to the escape pods, Peebee working tirelessly in the messy space, shoulders strong, bare as she twists one of POC’s arms into place, testing the mobility. Liam’s omni-tool feeds a radio station of current news, speaking on the Leusinia’s repair and of the current task of updating defenses on the Nexus and Hyperion for better security in case of future threats. He is writing emails on the screen, talking back and forth with Peebee around the lesser important details. </p><p>“You should add a laser to him.”</p><p>“I <em>did</em> manage to grab an Observer’s ultraviolet beam ray but I routed it into repair mode in case we aren’t around Remnant sites. Can’t do physical damage.”</p><p>Cora walks in after a moment, “Gil says she’s ready.”</p><p>“Then we’re waiting on you, Pathfinder.” Suvi says over her shoulder and Ryder nods, rotating his omni-tool. Before he can announce lift off, a voice catches their attention, the reporter on Liam’s audio urgently broadcasting a sudden situation. </p><p>“Word from our sources on Kadara tell us that there’s been an attack on Ditaeon! We’re getting video feed directly from Mayor Tate and affiliates who helped protect the outpost now. Transferring-”</p><p>Liam lowers his arm, uncertain, eyes going immediately to Ryder. Cora also looks to her leader, the room settling in the hesitation and Ryder glances to each face, realizes he’s the center of attention and indicates with his hand to put the feed up on the main screen as if it was just another report. </p><p>Liam shifts his gaze to Cora behind Ryder’s back but he follows orders, the transfer expanding on their front window to an interview with Mayor Tate and a young dark haired reporter with strong eyebrows. </p><p>“The Collective’s understanding of Ditaeon initially brought on concern but it was because they knew where our defenses needed boosting that we were able to easily handle the ambush. Their intel kept our casualties to zero,” Mayor Tate is saying, thumb hooked on his belt buckle, veiny arms revealed by his rolled-up sleeves, “And all their soldiers put in every effort in making sure our civilians were secure. We were solidly prepared.”</p><p>The interviewer nods, pulls back the mic and asks, “Does this incentivize the outpost to continue to entrust a portion of the defense of Ditaeon to the Collective?”</p><p>Christmas Tate rocks back and forth slightly in his cowboy boots, showing a slight amusement right at the edge of his mouth at the younger man, “I’m not turning down good help when I see it. The Initiative could front the cost to have a fleet of soldiers doing this work but considering our purpose here, I see no issue in leaning on our fellow men and women. The Collective provide more than just security and that’s free of cost.”</p><p>Behind him, with her arms folded, Lynx snorts in a half laugh and the Mayor nods her forward, “See? Even their officers know it ain’t the trees and bushes keeping our men occupied when work’s finished.” </p><p>Offering her the mic, the interviewer politely leads, “And you are?”</p><p>She steps into view, leather sleek and guns peaking out beneath her jacket, “Collective Representative Lynx. I was present when the Loyalists tried their failed surprise assault.”</p><p>“Lynx here was my first contact that night and she brought on a slew of capable men. She downplays it, but I insisted she come show the Nexus just who kept their newest outpost safe. We ought to know who we’re working alongside, uniform beside uniform, because it’s a similar cause at the end of the day.”</p><p>“Hey!” Liam says, nudging Ryder as he comes forward to get a better view, “We know her! She was out in the badlands guarding Draullir.”</p><p>Ryder minutely nods, eyes flicking to him but he can’t draw his attention away from the screen for more than that, listening, waiting, throat aching from the pull of his nerves. He can’t say what it is he wants to see or hear but he’ll know if it comes. A poker face only something for the surface.  </p><p>“She wasn’t alone, had a swift moving shot by her side. A man with a good eye.” Mayor Tate says, stroking his beard, falling back into his chiseled memory, far more lax and easy going, telling a story rather than reporting for official use. “Shadowy fellow, didn’t say much but he could shoot a gun. Just as skilled as their snipers.” He gives his moustache a smoothing then checks with Lynx, “Your faction?”</p><p>Her expression is complex, but she answers without hesitation, “No, not him. Only the snipers.”</p><p>“Another representative?”</p><p>The line of her mouth could almost be called ironic and she repositions her hands on her hips, dropping her face, wanting to breathe a laugh if just for the situation he can put her in even when he’s not around. “Something like that.”</p><p>The reporter tries to step into the conversation, “Returning to the topic at hand-“ He starts, holding his datapad, glancing to it before Mayor Tate throws an arm around him, grinning, “C’mon, it ain’t a school report. Put those notecards away-“</p><p>“It’s a datapad-“</p><p>“The outpost lives, Collective agents have hearts, and the story can go right on the front page of the paper. Let’s give the Nexus a show of Kadara.” He waves on the camera, pulling the interviewer along against his stammering, “I want to see a stack of applications for this outpost tomorrow morning-“  </p><p>Everyone glances to their leader’s back, even Liam unsure if he should comment. They are all thinking the same thing, the identity of the shadowy capable shot and how the puzzle piece could be the same as the man behind the Charlatan if angled right. The screen is suddenly minimized, and Ryder says after a clear, strong breath, “Time for takeoff, Pathfinder team!”</p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>X</p><p> </p><p>Looming, crawling along as mountains might move if the earth itself was alive, the Verakan cuts space for its path, becoming and mastering darkness, a lightless form dragging the Paarchero alongside it. Patience, or rather an indefatigable constancy keeps their pace to such speed, a certainty in its presence, the pledge of all Kett lined in its hard, bulbous outside; it all tells of their conviction and sureness that they will conquer, if just time passes. </p><p>Ryder stares at it, feels in his bones the chill of war and the severity of their rescue mission if gone wrong. The energy in his bridge holds, brittle, ready to collapse with even just a crack in their faith. But he would never allow them to falter and for his dependability they allow him the right to reinforce them, take them to the edge of hell and believe him when he says they’ll come back from it. </p><p>“Camouflage generator is working, no sign of enemy detection yet.” Kallo reads, “I’m going to start the approach toward the Paarchero.”</p><p>They all wait with bated breath, Suvi staring hard into her command module, fingers ready. Gil doesn’t have any witty on brand comments so all lines are now quiet, Drack watching with his arms folded, expertise obvious in his assessing. It will be one thing to board their fellow Pathfinder’s ark, another if it proves to be empty, an overrun shell of its former glory. All the lights, the indications of its inhabitants are dark, proving reality to the fear they all believe wise not to voice too early.</p><p>“Dropping in.” </p><p>“Steady.” Ryder says softly, gripping the railings to his console.</p><p>“I’ll override the door locks and it should allow us to pull up to disembark.” Suvi announces, typing quickly, all codes and data provided from Director Tann and his file of hopes and details. </p><p>“Encouraging to see the ship in decent condition.” Jaal murmurs and Liam shifts on his feet, replying, “Only if the inside matches.”</p><p>“Kett wouldn’t drag an empty hull around.” Drack says, “They must have a reason for keeping the Paarchero.” </p><p>“Is it a trap?” Cora asks, and she receives appropriate attention, the idea unfavorable at best and terrifying at least. </p><p>“More subtle than you’d expect from the Kett.” Vetra responds and Peebee steps into the room, “They’re more ‘blow shit up’ and grab what’s left in the rubble. Leading us to their mother ship by dangling our own people in front of us? That’s too far on the defensive.”</p><p>“Agreed.” Ryder says, “And either way, I doubt they’re expecting us. We decoded their encrypted data from the Decimation but it took us long enough for news of the death of the Valiant to reach the Archon. Considering he didn’t launch a full-scale attack, he must think we either don’t know where he is, or he has something more pressing than our victory over one of his top generals.” </p><p>“Got a signal.” Suvi reports promptly, “A distress message.”</p><p>“From the Paarchero?” Ryder presses and she says, “It’s on a line meant for others from the Milky Way. I’ll direct it to our comms.”</p><p>A voice, vibrating, urgent, distress bleeding out between the discipline, announces, “This is Captain Hayjer of the Paarchero Ark. Hostile aliens have captured our ship. For the safety of our future, the Paarchero is surrendering in hopes to survive to another day. We were unable to arrive at our intended coordinates, and with these circumstances, we only have time for the most basics of damage control. Fellow Milky Way allies, please use a SAM to find our Pathfinder Zevin Raeka and myself, if I survive until your arrival. We believe in your rescue. Captain Hayjer out.” The message pauses a moment, then begins to repeat, a loop filtering out into the stars, blindly beaconing the dimmest of hopes. </p><p>Kallo trembles an emotional breath, swallowing roughly. </p><p>“Your people are strong.” Jaal says, and the Salarian whips around, having been consumed by the message. He doesn’t say anything to Jaal’s hand on his shoulder but when the Angara says, “I believe we will find something to ensure your many months of uncertainty were not a lost cause.” He nods shakily and grips his hands tight for physical sensation to rid him of the shakes. </p><p>“Dropping down to the hanger. Everyone,” His voice wavers, still strung with deep, pounding, gut wrenching disturbance, “Please prepare to debark and-“ He hesitates but ultimately decides to trust in the words even as they get small, timid, “Save the Paarchero.”</p><p>Ryder looks at him, they meet eyes, and his Pathfinder nods firmly without hesitation, “You heard Kallo! This rescue mission begins once we set foot on the ark! Helmets on!” </p><p>Reassured, the armor a soldier needs from a leader bolstering confidence that will protect from immobilizing grief and fear coming in swiftly, Kallo finds faith in optimism against the bleakest odds. If their Pathfinder says so, then they all rally behind him, the man who made possible out of impossible. Months upon months of seeing conviction being loyally followed with results turns even his quivering heart into a muscle of honed strengths, time after time building its resilience to despair’s corroding bitterness. </p><p>Quiet halls meet them, a world without people, but while the Nexus was half devoured by the Scourge and the Leusinia burned with war and opposing forces, the Paarchero is neatly organized, the model of an ark before use. Chest plate lights on, the Tempest Pathfinder team and the other Pathfinders carefully move through hallways, scanning through the rooms, hoping to find a trail of Captain Hayjer’s movements to lead them in the right direction.</p><p>“The ship’s electric grid appears to be stable and undamaged.” Vederia comments, “Boosting her into FTL should be possible if we remove the cables attaching her to the Verakan.” Her SAM agrees, “The Salarian ark will have no issue starting the engines with their fuel levels.” </p><p>Avitus lets a door mechanically close again, coming back to the group after looking inside, “How many cables are we talking about?”</p><p>“Four.” His SAM answers, “If removed without consideration of the Paarchero’s hull, it could do irreversible damage.” </p><p>“So they’ll need to be blown off from the Verakan’s side.” </p><p>When the team looks at him and this necessary step hits home, Vetra says with a dawning awareness coming over everyone like cold to a warm ground no longer receiving sun, “Boarding the Verakan is no longer optional then.”</p><p>“First, we find the Captain and Pathfinder Raeka.” Ryder says, and he restabilizes their focus, slowing everyone down with a hand. They all crouch, getting low, and he murmurs, “Enemy soldiers. Next room over.” </p><p>His SAM says, “We can use heat detection to follow their movements to continue our mission in stealth.” Ryder raises his omni-tool, opens the orange screen and stretches it wide enough to give perspective into the next room. Slow moving forms walk at a similar pace at a distance apart that implies they are carrying something. </p><p>“That looks about the size of a stasis pod.” Vederia whispers over Ryder’s shoulder. </p><p>The Kett make their way into the next room over, out of the visibility of Ryder’s scan and they all wait another moment in order to give time if they are to come back. </p><p>“Coast is clear.” Drack grunts, and with his brute strength, he pulls the door open to a medical and technical lab still half used, left with the touch of Salarians from months prior and Kett disregard. They all keep low, trained eyes finding the important details. A poor wounded Salarian still lays on a medic table, hand covering a long dried bleed, blood transfusion plugged into his arm and medical cart with his name tag present beside him. Ryder picks it up, looks at the name of the electrician and then tries to access the tablet screen on the cart. </p><p>“It no longer carries a charge, Pathfinder.” SAM says, “If you supply power to the ark, all devices should come back online.”</p><p>“The Kett are definitely carrying out stasis pods.” Avitus says, looking far down a long hallway leading toward the cryo bay. “They’ve got them scattered all the way through here.”</p><p>“Do you think the stasis pods are also without power?” Vederia quickly whirls around, worry shining in her light grey eyes. </p><p>“Each stasis pod will provide its own power in case the ark itself happens upon a situation where it can no longer do so. Only by manually turning off the pod or damaging it beyond repair will it fail.” Her SAM reassures her and she steadies herself, the fresh devastation only marking where to bruise her further from her last sufferings. </p><p>“They’re looking for someone.” Cora’s light goes deep down the hallway, along the shells of pods, cracked open like the cocoons of butterflies too early for the life inside to survive the outside world. She stands at the edge of the doorway with its broken door, her toes edging their descent into the madness of a takeover that pounced the jugular of their mission. </p><p>“The Captain?” Peebee asks but then she quickly corrects, “But he said the Paarchero surrendered. Other than the Moshae they’ve never taken political prisoners.”</p><p>“Are they exalting Salarians too?” Jaal growls, the intensity of his stance clear evidence of the rage, the righteous roar for justice that will never be fully quenched, “Their crimes against life in Andromeda continue to grow.”</p><p>“Do exalted beings all appear similar?” Vetra wonders, walking up to stand beside Cora, looking into the hallway of darkness and terror. “I don’t believe we’ve seen an exalted Salarian…”</p><p>“Now that you say that,” Peebee strokes her chin, “I don’t think any Milky Way species have ever been exalted.”</p><p>“None that we’ve met.” Drack elaborates and says solidly, “Let’s scan the cryo bay, make sure the Captain and Pathfinder Raeka aren’t still hidden in plain sight.”</p><p>Lines upon lines of pods are missing, ripped out, the lost ribs of the insides of the Paarchero. There is hardly any sign of a struggle, as if it was all so sudden there was hardly a soul available to attempt a fight at all. Vederia runs gentle hands along the scars of stolen people, knowing deeply of such tragedy, touching it so to sear it into her memory and when she turns back to the rest of the team, she is pulled in by the gentle sorrow in Jaal’s eyes watching her. They share a look that could say more than words themselves, a place beneath so easily washing up and consuming rage for its potency in sadness.  </p><p>“They’re taking the pods as they come. Whatever they’re looking for, they haven’t found it yet.” Avitus comments, “Let me use my SAM to test the identities in the pods.” He raises his omni-tool, walking along the rows upon rows of darkened glass and metals. The scan takes time, but in their situation, conversation could only be forced, the atmosphere as heavy as the dark shadows of the ark’s corners. Ryder stands by, letting Avitus bring the team in close by hand signals so he can explain his findings. </p><p>“We’ve got a couple pods marked with code that appears to be a trail. None of the names match either the Pathfinder or the Captain but I think it’s safe to assume they would disguise important details like that.” Avitus says and with all eyes on him, he chances a glance to Ryder who nods him on, lends him the available hands of his revered team and awaits instructions.</p><p>“Let’s split into teams, we’ll follow each lead, see if this is what Captain Hayjer meant by using a SAM.” Avitus announces, checks once more with Ryder and with the steadfast guidance allowing him opportunity for practice at the front of a mission, he divides everyone and sends them to the marked pods. </p><p>Ryder falls in line with Avitus’ steps, and asks, “How is having a SAM in your head?”</p><p>A wry, tender crease folds the Turian’s eyes and he admits, “Strange. I’m never alone anymore. Which is.. nice. Macen left…” The emotions take hold and he wrings his hands for something to transfer the energy to, “Messages. To help me.” </p><p>“My father left memories for me as well.” </p><p>Avitus’ eyes glow, and he turns fully to Ryder, looking him up and down, seeing himself, seeing the possibilities of recovery, of becoming the source of strength to fuel entire societies, “Did he? Doesn’t it seem like he’s right there in them?” The words rush out, the fragile confession of someone desperate for the light at the end of his dark, smothering tunnel when the past holds such beauty and calls his name so fondly. </p><p>Ryder nods wistfully, “A lot of things that went unsaid, I’ve discovered are there, in his memories.” </p><p>“How..” Avitus hesitates, glances to the others who are manually moving down pods and lowers his voice, afraid of being the lost Pathfinder, the one without direction in a time of need, “How do you come back to this? How do you not just… stay there?”</p><p>He doesn’t know what to do with the lovesick eyes he thinks he sees, the pain he thought would never cross such a brave face that could very well be mere shadows of his own feelings, but Avitus believes he sees affection through heartbreak and watches Ryder ghost a smile, turn his expression gently down and say honestly, “You find there are other things worth the trouble.” But when Ryder draws up his face, the smile he shows is pulled together, the mentor the Turian needs and gives him the courage to step forward, “You’re doing great. We’re lucky to have you.”</p><p>Macen flashes his mind, a curve in his stony expressions. “Believe in yourself sometimes, Avi, you’re doing great. Couldn’t have asked for someone better.”</p><p>Tears prick him, and he lowers his head, tries to hold them in and shyly lets praise wash him clean of the grip of the past. Macen’s place could have been the lonely memory at the bottom of a bottle somewhere hidden in this universe but with his companions it continues to be enveloped in gold, a man who walks like a sun kissed wind next to Ryder. </p><p>“Let’s pull down that pod.” </p><p>Raeka wakes like out of a vivid dream, bursting from her pod with a gasp of air to revive all her sleeping systems. Glossy black eyes shy from everyone’s lights, confusion evident but her movement is controlled, honed and she sits up even with Vederia’s careful hands out in case the lingering weakness of deep sleep was still too strong for her muscles. </p><p>“I’m okay.” Raeka finally says, “Salarians recover relatively quick to stasis sleep.” She breathes, feels her body, and they watch as she trembles once, eyes closed, and remembers her situation she left months ago to hope for another day. “A leader shouldn’t be absent like this.” She whispers, more to herself, to a conviction that needs bricks of reason not to tumble her into despair or guilt and she stands out of her pod on legs like a newborn faun determined for the world. </p><p>Composure becomes her, the Salarian rising out of disaster and in the way she holds her head, they can see the chosen resilience that existed in the first wave of Pathfinders echoing from her presence. Her orange armor against the red of her angled markings makes her striking, bright, light drawing. Everything her ark needs, she is. </p><p>“I’m Zevin Raeka, the Salarian Pathfinder.” </p><p>Ryder puts out a hand, “Ryder, the human Pathfinder.” </p><p>She takes it, letting the handshake allow her time to examine him, “What’s happened to Alec?” She turns to Avitus, to Vederia, to seconds in command she recognizes but fears to see in such a place. “To Sarissa, to Macen?”</p><p>They all need not specify the grand tragedies that have stolen leaders fit for a golden world leaving their green budding seedlings to fend for themselves so Ryder finally says, “We’ve lost a good number of people.”</p><p>Raeka holds his hand a moment longer, grief flashing, rising, wounding, and settling heavy behind her eyes. She slowly retracts her hand, shoulders stiff, body holding inside agony where it has nowhere to leave, only ways to make for further suffering. “I failed you as a fellow Pathfinder-“</p><p>“No!” Vederia exclaims, then her voice softens, imploringly coming to her ally’s aid, “To have you alive, for your Captain to make sure you’ve survived to help your people, it is a great relief.”</p><p>The agony softens and Raeka murmurs, “My people…” </p><p>“They need you.” Vederia insists, “We haven’t found the Captain yet.”</p><p>Cora steps to her side, “The pod that was encrypted with a code like yours seems to have been taken. As well as many others.”</p><p>“To the enemy ship?” Raeka asks, looking around to see for herself the long-lasting cruelties forced upon them. </p><p>“Yes, we call them the Kett.” </p><p>Jaal comes forward, steel in his eyes and says, “Welcome to Andromeda, Pathfinder Raeka. This is the universe known to the Angara, my kind.”</p><p>She nods to him formerly, and he continues, “We have been at war against the Kett for many long years, so many years that those who remember what our life was before are beginning to fade and return to the soul pool. We have lost too large a number of Angara to them, and you have had them infiltrate and capture your own. I know of the pain you are feeling. We have aligned with the Milky Way travelers to put this universe to peace.”</p><p>“So this is not an isolated event.” A breath comes from her, and Raeka murmurs solemnly, “We are not the only victims to this horror.” Almost as soon as the emotions are evident, visible, professional distance smooths her expression, “I will do all I can to save the Paarchero and of course assist you and the rest of the Pathfinders against this threat.” She is another defense on their side, another way to shield from outer threat, different from all other Pathfinders and still reinforcing in all the right ways. </p><p>Leaving the pods behind them, not yet gravestones but lonely like a long quiet graveyard, they discuss the situation. </p><p>“Do you know how you ended up making such sudden contact with the Kett?”</p><p>Considering this, she walks forward, letting herself take a moment in thought. A delicate touch her to her face and then she replies, “There was a sudden course change. We had to avoid this massive unknown element in the stars and ended up increasing our distance from the agreed meet-up point. When the second alteration of our course happened, there were.. arguments about how necessary it was.”</p><p>“It was an approved change but the Kett were waiting. It wasn’t an accidental happening upon each other. Face to face, they greeted us.” Raeka says, “Someone gave them our coordinates.”</p><p>“But your ark had never made contact with the Kett before, had it?” Avitus checks and when Raeka turns to him, her dark eyes glint ominously, fluid with the black shadow of her lightless home, all that they hear is the damage of her words, “Not that I know of.”</p><p>Vederia and Peebee swallow, uncomfortable with the betrayal so distinctly puzzled out of their pieces. </p><p>“Seems like we’ve got a theme of manipulation here in Andromeda.” Drack comments and while he says it with a deceivingly light tone, they all know it holds weight, a serious reframe with a tone to help keep them from letting fear take over. </p><p>“Whoever revealed your ark’s position and aligned coordinates with the Kett may still be alive. We need power and distance from the Verakan to confirm anything.” Ryder finally speaks up and his allies lean in, involuntarily reassured and protected by his voice. “Three Pathfinders and this team? We’re taking back the Paarchero without question.” He says, and the glint in his eye makes for confidence reborn like a phoenix. </p><p>Splitting into groups, Vederia stays with the ship to help boost FTL when electricity is reestablished. Avitus and Vetra agree to stay by her side, offer defense when they inevitably attract unwanted attention by powering up the ark. Raeka insists she will go to her people’s aid, free them from the ship or die trying for their release so Jaal and Peebee stand beside her, the usually curious and searching eyes of the Asari genius serious and focused. Cora, Liam and Drack stay beside their Pathfinder, ready to begin dismantling the claw like tethers that force the Paarchero to linger in the Verakan’s shadow. A team to be borrowed for justice, the loaned lives given from Ryder’s very hand, they align like chess pieces to their best use. </p><p>Ryder sets a comm line, and announces, “We stay in contact. This is as much a rescue mission as a stealth one. If any one of us feels like we’re about to be overwhelmed, we send out a signal as soon as possible.”</p><p> “I don’t think we’re getting out of here without at least some confrontation.” Cora says warily, and Ryder agrees, his optimism a matured gamble against the odds in his favor than simple blind hope, “No doubt. But we prioritize what we’ve already gained- Four Pathfinders and an ark intact. Vederia, when we start blowing off those lines, you and Avitus need to be ready to get the power on immediately. Raeka,” He turns to her, show a reservation to give her any semblance of orders but she nods, accepts his rank and he says, “We’ll provide as much time as possible for you to save your Captain and any others captured but..”</p><p>“I know.” She nods, breathes, reigns in her restlessness, “Don’t be reckless. I’ll be back on the ship in time.” </p><p>“Alright.” Ryder gives everyone solid eye contact, honeyed brown eyes reminding each person of their importance to this mission and as the air settles, the severity of each of their parts giving adrenaline to their honed skills, they agree to this hell and get in position. </p><p>Crawling through the lines of the tethered claws of the Verakan in Paarchero’s hull can only transform sobriety from a terrifying task into its many parts, some being the boring monotony before the drop into the frying pan and the conversation that arises from it.  </p><p>“Ryder, I swear if you jerk that foot back again and kick my hand-“</p><p>“It happened <em>once</em>, Liam-“</p><p>“Yeah? Let’s change places then.”</p><p>Ryder turns back over his shoulder, amusement showing in the folded trapped lights bouncing off close walls, “A little late for that.”</p><p>Cora chuckles from behind Liam, elbows drawn in and says, “Maybe if you’d fall into Ryder’s pace you wouldn’t get kicked.”</p><p>“Can’t help it the guy’s taking his sweet time. Am I the only one who wants out of the metal rope swinging in open space?”</p><p>“Not-the only- one.” Drack grunts, shimmying forward, large, almost expanding the walls around him as he forces himself forward after Cora. </p><p>They all look back to him, share a brief laugh at his expense and Ryder says fondly, “I’ll pick it up since <em>someone</em> is claustrophobic. How’d you get that past basic training?”</p><p>“You’re lucky I still owe you for helping me save Verand from those pirates..”</p><p>“I know, wingman of the century.”</p><p>This earns a real laugh from Liam who glows, “Now <em>that</em> part of the favor <em>can</em> be returned!” </p><p>Ryder plays coy about the idea, “I don’t know, can you really outdo swooping in at the last minute to defeat hostile raiders, saving both the girl and her company only to carry her out to her family with the blaze of victory behind you?”</p><p>Liam smirks, wiggles past an especially tight area and says, “She says when we get a chance, she has somewhere to show me.”</p><p>“If only Peebee could hear that.”</p><p>“Trust me, I’ve done my fair share of bragging already.”</p><p>Ryder almost allows himself to reminisce about the smooth offer he was given to be shown a special place beneath a dark world full of danger where even he, with the soul of an animal, could finally be free of his collar. He doesn’t let himself get too far into those thoughts, the places they all long for, the earned safe havens for crawling through the demon’s nest and how far away his is right now. </p><p>“I see the light at the end.” He says, and wishes it were different for all of them. </p><p>The Verakan is quiet, deathly so, and makes little effort for the comforts of life. They arrive in a room meant for battle preparation, the tube they crawled through used for infiltration, weapons on the walls and computers dark for communication. There aren’t any Kett waiting for orders to board the Paarchero with all threats neutralized but rising out of what could have been an immediate fight makes Liam whistle with their luck. </p><p>Their comms open up, Raeka whispering, “We’ve boarded. This tunnel leads to an unoccupied room but it’s definitely been recently used. There’s an.. empty pod here. I’m going to use the encrypted code Captain Hayjer left and hope the other pods are with his.”</p><p>“Roger.” Ryder says softly, “We’re going to begin detaching the Verakan from the Paarchero.”</p><p>“This command module may be able to help.” Cora says, and they all approach, Drack still stretching out his big limbs. They can’t read the language on the buttons or the levers, but with SAM’s scan, they can piece together from the shared Angaran research the basics. </p><p>“So this is how they board other ships. Grab them, pull them in close and then they crawl through the hull.” Liam says, hands on his hips. They are all keeping their voices low, over confidence only a hinder to their survival and while Ryder reads the levers again carefully, Cora replies, “It would explain why the Leusinia retained its massive hull damage.” </p><p>“It does.. look like we can detach the tether here but once we try it out, we might expose our positions.”</p><p>“Whatever keeps us out of those tubes again.” Drack grunts and Ryder glances back, makes sure to each of them they are certain of the final act that will prevent them from going back. He sees their resolution, the months upon months of pulling each other up off their knees and providing their shoulders when the other thought it impossible to even walk again and the nights leading to nights of washing blood both enemy and ally off their bodies that tears could never pay the cost of grief. They may die here, although the Pathfinder has their trust, and he is determined not to fail them. </p><p>“Alright, here goes.” He starts the system, turning on the beacon of red lights overtop the hull gripper, and then he lifts one lever back up into locked position. Keeping them back, a burst of air rushes into the room as a metal block glides over the tube’s hole, preventing any further entry or exit. It seals, the red light flicking off. </p><p>Avitus jumps on the line, excitement clear in his rushed voice, “Ryder, you’ve done it! That’s the first tether! It’s still attached to the Paarchero but-“ </p><p>“The extra weight shouldn’t prevent us from jumping into hyper speed.” Vederia confirms, “We’re going to start rerouting power to the ship’s engine.” </p><p>“Roger.”</p><p>They breathe, test their weapons, then open the door into the hallway, chancing a glance into the long darkness. </p><p>“Coast is clear.” </p><p>Moving down the hall to the next estimated mark with their bodies low, their crouch crisp with reflex and instinct, they slip into the next door. Raeka’s voice hops back on, “I’ve got a lead. I’m following the beacon to their research labs… it’s a terrible place. So many- so many bodies. They’re-“ She suddenly cuts off and safe behind the door, team Tempest waits with bated breath. </p><p>“Sorry, there are scientists everywhere. They’re conducting hundreds of experiments and it isn’t just Salarians. They have humans, Asari.. they have Angara.. Oh,” Her voice lowers, emotions pulling it deep, painful, “My people…” </p><p>“The Kett have files written about every species here in Andromeda.” Peebee whispers, “But it’s not just that they’re trying to figure out everyone’s weaknesses and strengths, they’re looking for signs of interfacing. They want to find who is capable of interacting with Remnant.”</p><p>“Maybe that is why they captured the Moshae. She has the most knowledge known to the Angara about the Remnant and the hidden world of Meridian.” Jaal says, “They were not looking for prisoners of war, but of deeply coveted wisdom.”</p><p>“The Moshae can’t interface with the Remnant though.” Cora says softly, “Only a SAM has been capable of working with the vaults.”</p><p>“They didn’t know that then.” Ryder says, their awareness expanding on the danger of their situation, “They’ve been looking for a Pathfinder. All these captured Salarians, they’re expecting to find Raeka.” He tenses, immediately sharpening his voice, “Raeka, you need to get back to the Paarchero!”</p><p>“I’m not leaving my people here on this ship.” She refuses, “I’m their leader-“</p><p>“It’s too dangerous! We’ll regroup-“</p><p>An alarm groans alive, its war horn-like groan reverberating down into their bones, deep into the very metals of the ship. Ryder’s head whips up, the sound slicing through their conversation and Raeka takes the moment in stride, “I’m too close to go back, Ryder! Trust me!”</p><p>They can hear soldiers coming their way, pounding feet on hard flooring, the army they wanted to dodge heading for their positions and even with his calling, Raeka doesn’t answer. Whirling on the lever, Ryder sends Cora to break the tether free and demands, “Jaal! Peebee!”</p><p>“Don’t worry your pretty head, Ryder,” Peebee whispers back, an airy quality to her words proving their hurrying, “We’ll protect Raeka. Guess these ridiculous hero antics <em>were</em> on the job description after all, huh?” </p><p>Ryder’s brow pinches, the control he had just moments ago slipping through his fingers but he thanks her, genuinely, too seriously for the Asari’s liking and in other circumstances, she would scold him. But they don’t have time. </p><p>Kett orders boom through the speakers, a garbled language full of harsh syllables and guttural noise. Red light covering their faces as the metal door to the tube closes, Drack pulls his Ruzad shotgun, long mouth curling at the edges despite their situation, “Guess we’re fighting our way out of this.”</p><p>Liam sighs, drops his head and throws a hand at the Krogan, “You’re too happy about this, man!” </p><p>Cora boosts her shields, but Ryder doesn’t draw his weapon, pulling instead a grenade, “We’re not fighting yet. We need to get the Paarchero separated from the Verakan. If the ark has to leave before the Tempest, so be it, but we aren’t letting them board it again.” He settles against the door, drawing the pin and when the storming soldiers sound close enough to a stampede, he opens it and flings his arm into the sea of enemies. The door closes just in time for the explosion not to scorch him, and before even the smoke can begin to disperse, he orders his team, “Let’s go!”</p><p>They run through limbs and blood, green and brown splatter on their boots. Over a shoulder, Liam aims his rifle into Kett bodies still gathering their strength, crumbling them for sudden roadblocks that cause trampling and delay. Swerving into the next infiltration room, hesitation gone, Ryder beats the button, snapping the lever, Cora and Drack already down the hall. The final door beckons them, although from that direction more Kett approach with guns ready. </p><p>Cora throws up a biotic shield, deflecting bullets uncaring for killing intruders. She lets it charge as they approach one another, brow pinched in concentration and power honing, then blasts the energy outward, throwing Kett off their feet, smashing them into one another, giving room for her teammates to slip through the final door. </p><p>“Raeka!” Ryder demands, Liam punching the button at the hole and pushing up the lever for the final cable, freeing the Paarchero from the claws of its predator, letting their odds alter.</p><p>Before she can answer, a different voice comes through the speakers, cool, assessing, and the air chills with its calm demeanor in the face of bloodshed, violence, and intrusion.  </p><p>“Trespassers on the Verakan, have you come to collect your fallen allies?”</p><p>“The Archon.” Cora whispers, eyes going wide. </p><p>“For these long months I have been patiently learning of your existences, your vulnerabilities. And for you to make it here, you must have been learning of me as well. I, the Archon, extend my attention for your choice of slaughter. Your Salarian people have.. aspects to offer, reasons to find the Kett worth the subjugation, although they are in many ways just another group of lesser beings. They will fight on the front lines of our war for me soon enough and maybe even kill you.” </p><p>The guns and demand of entry does not come, Drack still waiting with the door physically held closed so all they can do for now is listen to the deep, coiling words of a leader to a vicious and enslaving sea of creatures. </p><p>“I know now there are only a few chosen from your entire universe. Only a few worthy of my time. You call them… ‘Pathfinders.’ Is there a Pathfinder here on my ship? I will find you, and you will reveal to me your secrets.”</p><p>Ryder breathes, anxiety welling inside him. If they discover two Pathfinders on the Verakan, it will only deviate their escape route, thin their choices, leave them desperate. He trusts Peebee, Jaal and Raeka will have no other options but to lay low, let Ryder and those with him harness the attention and spotlight but without the Salarian Pathfinder’s consent for escape, they are only buying time with little left to pay the cost. She won’t leave her people but responding to the same situation, he can’t honestly say he would do different.</p><p>“Take back your hallow ship, it means nothing to me. You will answer my questions for my leniency though.” </p><p>Cora lifts her arm, a navpoint clear on her omni-tool, sent by Jaal. The Captain’s pod. Numbers increased, fortified in unity, they might be able to forge their path off the enemy ship. Ryder nods to Drack who smirks, throwing open the door with a roar. Kett frozen while awaiting their higher rank’s order are taken without resistance, pummeled and beat down by Krogan fists and concussive shots. </p><p>“Fight all you want,” The Archon murmurs, “I will capture you.”</p><p>“We’ll bring the enemy right to them.” Cora says, her pistol unforgiving, headshots blowing blood out of Kett skulls and Ryder, knowing each decision weighs their scales, loads his shotgun and blasts through guts and armor, “They’ll be far outnumbered otherwise.” </p><p>“Can’t say I’m against the old fashioned way- too old to be sneaking around anymore!” Drack calls out, snatching a Kett rifle and bending it back as he flack cannons the lower half of the enemy’s body into oblivion. He smacks the gun across another’s cheekbone, grinding it into the wall and then drops it stopping the head in with vicious ease. </p><p>“Too heavy you mean!” Liam says both arms glowing red with omni-blades, hot edges cutting away limbs ready to aim bullets, moving with enemy approach, gutting them when they try to hit him. He waits for them to think numbers will prove his close range attack is too vulnerable and drops a grenade at the last second, stepping back into Cora’s wall of biotic protection and watching as fire consumes. </p><p>They immobilize enemies, saving ammo for the depths of the ship, making use of their momentum and each other’s shields. Splatter on the ceilings, slick flooring, this battle is second nature, a gruesome contract for establishing home in Andromeda. Cora wipes green from her face, her free hand leading a spear to stab purple down into Kett body, giving Liam room to aim with accuracy over her shoulder.</p><p>They race the hallway, trained to take down enemies by mere experience alone. Imperfections in Kett armor are memorized down to a reflex, bullets finding the faults that draw the most blood, leave the wounded too far gone for a second to retaliate. </p><p>“Pathfinder-“ SAM begins but the beacon calls his full efforts and Ryder opens the door, widening their perspective. Everything within him, all his limbs, even down to his lungs which startle, cut his breath, then stop. </p><p>The ground isn’t beneath him, and even though he wants to look, all he can do is see out his eyes, frozen inside his body. Unable to speak, unable to turn for his companions to check their status, all he can see is the swirling orange of an enemy’s force field shimmering hazily around him. Weightless, all movement restricted to simple basics, the beating of his racing heart, the filling and emptying of his chest with air, he tumbles out of his focus, fear gripping his mind, shell shocking him.</p><p>Unable for even a shout to rip through, it only builds inside, twisting like a knife, slamming his chest, all battle plans thrown away for just simple survival. Hearing available, ears straining for noise, only a faint buzz meets his desperate senses. Seconds turn to minutes. Minutes, will they turn to-</p><p>Across the room, a door opens, whishing, and from it steps the patient overlord with his false prophet halo of bone and supporters at each shoulder. Walking through the field, he runs his fingers along its misting color like the petting of an ever-altering snake, then turns opaque silver eyes to Ryder. Unlike his army of heartless faux children and blood, they flick over the details with consideration, processing, examining. Guards unmoving from his side, unlooking, uncaring, wait as the Archon turns his head but still he doesn’t speak. His hands reach out, the lack of ferocity or immediate brutality jarring. Heavy knuckled fingers pass out of Ryder’s view, reaching, and with a nimble and efficient touch, he unlocks Ryder’s helmet and pulls it free, revealing the Pathfinder’s face. </p><p>They lock eyes, and the Archon murmurs, “I know you.” </p><p>There is nothing any of them can say in his trap, nothing to argue with and with a strange regard, he passes the helmet off to a guard behind him without looking back. “You’ve escaped me once before. You.. are the reason the Angara live today. You are the catalyst, the beginning. Are you the first Pathfinder?” He reaches out, hand bigger up close than first thought and grabs the full of Ryder’s chin and face, “It is you, isn’t it? Someone I can call a rival, someone deserving.” He breathes out, the grim line of his mouth somehow wistful if such an exposed emotion could pierce the hardened existence of the bloodthirsty beast determined to send worlds into ruin. </p><p>Mind rushing as if he were still running, an exhausted antelope unaware of its throat in the jaws of the predator, Ryder can only blankly stare at his hunter in mute shock. </p><p>“The significance you hold... but this human body is so lacking.” He murmurs woefully, knowing well his audience is captive and must endure his speech, “No outer skeleton like your Turians. You are not evolved to survive the harsh conditions this universe met you with. And yet here you challenge me anyway. None have outrun me, or dismantled my tech the way you have. You are the one who has spoken with the Remnant. There are others like you…” He turns Ryder’s face, angles him for multiple perspectives, “But they have not done what you have. I would know a formidable opponent like yourself if there were two…” </p><p>Letting Ryder go, he steps away, folds his arms behind his back, “You’ve come for your ship. Then you believe it still has value.” He paces, time on his side, each word chosen with an exactness found by someone revered, someone with a strong relationship to contemplation and its profit. The lights around glow dimly on the walls, this merely an office for higher rank to record lower rank travel. In the Archon’s presence, there are no pawns, no chaos, no blind fighting. “Is it merely ants wanting for numbers or do you also know of how magnificent the Remnant are? Have you come to collect another Pathfinder?” He presses the question with his eyes on Ryder but needing not a response, he pulls his gaze away and paces the opposite direction, “Yes… I’m aware not all your Pathfinders are human. All species have the privilege to be a Pathfinder. It is bestowed upon you, much like exaltation. With our similarities, I feel tolerant, even merciful.” </p><p>He breathes, lets the sensation linger. “For many years the secrets of these worlds have eluded me. I applaud you Pathfinders for doing what we were unable to.” The cape settled into his armor flutters and he stops, thinking, far into the decades spent in Andromeda, an existence not one member of the Tempest crew can fathom. He turns his head, then says coldly, “But mostly for being able to run from me.”</p><p>An ache below Ryder’s chest pulses but he can provide himself no coping efforts. He must breathe, must submit against all his instincts, and even with the limits of a super soldier coming in closer, not even a finger twitches. They are forced to endure, heads figuratively bowed, awaiting an unchosen king of a plague. </p><p>“I expected..” He finally speaks again, musing, “Your kind to be more fearful, more primitive. The Salarian Pathfinder was expertly hidden, but eventually I would have turned over every figurative rock. Did you run into my hand to give them time to flee?” It is the first curve, a twist in an otherwise thick skinned face and it shows hostile humor, “Their best soldier all for some inferior duplicate? The universe answers me finally. I search for the Salarian Pathfinder and I am given something of even greater value. I will not waste you. You are my key.” Silver phantom eyes flick like bug wings, their speed unnatural, too alive, too developed and land back to eye contact. “But I have no need for your companions. Non-Pathfinders bring nothing to offer.” Lifting his hand, he is returned the helmet, and says, “Take the Krogan to the others. Throw the rest in the prison. Bring the Pathfinder to my personal chambers.”</p><p>If Ryder could protest, if he could release the surge of resistance rising in his blood, he’s sure he could beat the Archon with his mere fists. It all flashes, the desperate fantasy of victory, too many missed signs, his atonement at the highest cost for arrogance and if his face were free, the grimace of anguish would take hold despite how he’s taught himself a masterful poker face. Devastation runs deep, soul rattling, and all that holds him together is the force field. </p><p>Eyes, or caverns into the mindless drone follow, watch on in acknowledgment as Ryder is transported through the Verakan. Shame is only a twist by the knife bleeding him with failed duties and terror. Stomach pitted, blood cold, a shiver might run through his entire body, but he is still, following that flowing cape, each step clear, rage first rearing its head in the dread. His eyes are dry, his threats silent but bloodthirsty, daring, vicious, but through the ever changing rooms, the distance breaks him down and soon he is just making promises to the universe to do better, if only, if just, if one more chance. </p><p>The ceiling opens, a room altered with plenty of created light, mock windows and trophies, Remnant artifacts both large and small. It is a museum of stolen history, a coveted space but one celebrated by its creator, the thief, entitled in owning the very bones of planets for himself. The Archon opens his arms, invites appraisal, his chambers filled with his choice of collections, his personal evaluations of importance and value. “Time has claimed so much knowledge on the Remnant. The Angara have little to offer me, for years now, them knowing no more than we do, only perception appealing to them. To praise technology as ancient wisdom, willing to let it sit dormant as old culture instead of pursuing progress… A boring, careful people…” </p><p>Turning, he watches on as his soldiers lead Ryder’s still floating form to a corner in the room with a chair and straps, electrical equipment, charts and screens. There are several bodies sitting limply on the floor, folded over themselves, pale skin, lost eyes, thinning hair, bloodied fingertips, and Ryder’s stomach lurches for the discovery of this portion of the monarch’s gallery. They strap him in, wrists tied to the surface, chest strapped down, as well as his legs but he thinks it all meaningless with the force field still on. </p><p>“But you, as we did, came to Andromeda for the resource, for the opportunity. Fearlessly, you engaged the Remnant, you activated the very depths of these worlds thought mere dirt and dust for the centuries to come. Angara who lived in their holes, coveting safety, whispering old stories.. they were unwilling to grab the Remnant and demand it answer.” He comes forward after his soldiers place his throne of a chair before Ryder and dismisses them with a simple look. </p><p>“You went unafraid of the consequence.” Flicking his cape, the Archon dips down and sits, resting his chin on his hand, “Unafraid of the cost, you proved my interest in the Remnant worthy.” Lifting his other hand, he motions something from above and a device, cone-like toward the bottom, glaring an orange light drifts down rotating around to face its master. “I have not spent all this time merely waiting though,” He caresses the device, looks upon its form with an architect’s keen gaze, “I will release you from my force field.” By a button, the orange dissipates, freedom rushing Ryder’s lungs, body jerking, pressing hard against its restraints and he grits his teeth, overwhelmed by each and every sensation, the pins and needles, the heat, the cold, the emotions that have had nowhere to go but fester and their release physically. </p><p>“The field reacts to living matter, something to question about the Remnant. Naturally, humans, Angara, even my people cannot break its grasp. None have escaped, except by death.” Silence follows, a science made for control, the creator creating for playing God basking in his abilities, in his power. He hums, considering Ryder, considering his existence and asks, “Do you perceive death an escape as the Angara believe it to be?”</p><p>Ryder turns his head away, breathing heavily, tries again to lift his arms, straining. The conversation is asking too much, too casual for its damage and too sinister to be taken as anything less than a threat. He can’t focus, thinking a thousand thoughts, of his team, of Raeka, of his ship. </p><p>“I can feel your emotions from here, Pathfinder.” </p><p>The Archon stands from his chair, comes to the screens, and one by one turns them on, letting the data rush by, the options, the bars and the numbers all from a previous set still recorded. “I know you are an emotional species, a kind to rely on the irrational sensations you label with special words. Feelings outside what your instinct deems necessary. Maybe it is a … oversight during your evolution, or maybe it is what makes you particular.” Lifting a body from the floor, a woman, brown hair faded, skin lost of color, and thin, barely a person left at all. The Archon’s hand grabs her face, lifting it to greet her, and he says, “Fear is a natural response, panic, distrust, these are for the species to survive, but that is not what makes you ‘human.’” He turns her toward Ryder, a skeleton not quite finished, interrupting the banging of his heartbeat for a painful skip and he quickly averts his gaze, horrified by looking blatantly into the torture of stolen people. </p><p>“Why do you turn your eyes away, Pathfinder? Is it her deterioration that causes you such discomfort? Or do you fear you will be next?” Examining bones beneath paper thin skin, the Archon follows the line of her eyelashes with a thumb, then grabs the back of her skull, holding her simply by her own head, “No,” He murmurs, “What would you call this? You have fear, it is undeniable, but this.. is not self preservation that calls your anguish. Guilt?” Following the thinness of her arms, he takes hold of her hand, still bruised, forever bruised, and murmurs, “For someone you do not know? You waste energy on this remorse but you do not choose it, do you?” Finally he places her body back in his stack of experiments, overtop the Salarians, the Turians. “She did not survive long, you are not a strong species. If the elements do not consume you, your feelings make you weak, vulnerable. I was only able to spend minimal time examining her before she succumbed to my tests.”</p><p>“But I have learned enough of humans as a whole, I am interested in a Pathfinder. I want to know about your ability to interface.” The Archon places electrodes on the chair, then comes in close to Ryder’s face, shimmering eyes unblinking, “Tell me, how do you communicate with the Remnant?”</p><p>Ryder sets his jaw, the expression glistening back in the Archon’s eyes, and he looks it over, cocks his head and says lowly, “Rage? Hatred? I can take those from you.” He flips a switch and a bolt of electricity cracks Ryder’s spine, jolting him painfully stiff, frying his veins, turning blood to fire and sucking all thought into a tunnel of darkness. He can’t make any noise, hardly a grunt straining through the lock of his teeth and when it stops, all he can do is hope to breathe, and not pass out. </p><p>It does nothing to deter a second wave, which blinds him, sending his vision white, stealing the sensation from his fingers and toes but only in the most terrifying of ways, like they’ve been cut away and he rattles against his restraints, sagging when it stops, already exhausted. </p><p>“You are weak to electricity. You are weak to fire, weak to too little oxygen. You cannot lose your blood.” The Archon says logically, his words barely making sense and Ryder squeezes his eyes together, heart flipping, nerves trying to find random reason to not suspect a third bolt. “You find pain to be a motivator,” He turns the switch again and this time he does earn a gutted cry, something quickly chopped for the brutality of the shock. The smell of burning buzzes in his nose, but he can’t tell if its imagined or real and he coughs, shaking even his bones. “Do you need more motivation?”</p><p>Ryder breathes, heaves, fear overriding his senses, and only blind thoughts rush him, a deep rooted longing to see Sara, childishly wishing his sister would come to his defense like she did when they were younger, and apologies to his team, a mass of sorry’s that sound broken and too early even to him. </p><p>“Desperation is a pathetic emotion for a powerful soldier.” The Archon says, leaning back, “But you are still limited by your race. While you are the first to hold your tongue so well, it is only a matter of time.” He pulls plugs out from the screens, a mother board of devices awaiting his use and stretches their cords, cranking the table up so Ryder sits up. The end of the plugs curve like the pincher of an insect, and the Kett leader reveals little hesitation upon stabbing it into Ryder’s upper back, letting it attach into the suit, a hot sear quickly finding the flesh beneath. </p><p>Startled, Ryder jerks, then as the heat increases, he lets out a scream, the two plugs going molten, taking his vow of silence. </p><p>“I will add your data to my collection, to the reasons why humans are ultimately inferior to the Kett. Your blood, your brain matter, your memories, I will see all. Your mouth cannot keep me from your secrets.” </p><p>The screen flies with data, read at the same speed, Ryder’s stomach fluttering with his breath, deep and shallow, panic low living right beneath the skin. His muscles tremble in their core, and he looks around, hoping while the Archon is distracted he will find something to provide hope to-</p><p>“You have been altered.” The Kett creator acknowledges, snapping brittle focus for elsewhere, but his tone is unreadable, far from the equality of respect, but not shallow like surprise, “You really are no ordinary human. Have you been created for war as well? A soldier developed to stand above his fellow people. For how easily your kind die, I commend your willingness to adapt. What will your memories tell me?” With the hot heat of a sun, the plug starts whirring, snapping Ryder taut, the pinch of pain honest, and he desperately tries to draw up his legs, hands tightening to fists. If the strap wasn’t so tight across his chest, he might collapse onto himself but he holds, against all odds. </p><p>“Come, look, Pathfinder. See what your mind protects.” The Archon murmurs, grabbing Ryder’s head and forcibly turning him to watch. The images are fast, flying by without any concern- putting on his armor in the airlock, a cup of coffee in his room, pirates with guns, Liam’s face and the sweat on his brow as they climb through a raider’s ship, the Nexus and the celebration Avitus thought worthy of a smile, it’s all passing by on the screen, a horrifying transfer of his inner world into statistics to be consumed, the last place he had safe, to himself. They’re back on Kadara and his heartrate picks up, stutters and the Archon murmurs, “Oh?” </p><p>The ceremony passes almost backwards, noiseless, and afraid to witness the exposure of his own soul, Ryder attempts to look away, move his head against the iron lock of the Archon’s hand but he can’t. His eyes are victim to staring when Reyes’ face appears on the screen, glorious and calm, smiling ever so slightly at the corner of his lip on the top of their world on the balcony at the Collective base. It runs lightening of a different kind through him and his next breath sounds more like a sob. </p><p>“There it is…” The Archon says, “What would you call this emotion, Pathfinder? It is so rich,” Reyes’ face vanishes for a blinding ring down below the city, adrenaline and fists, blood splatter but it is not logical passage of time, they are in the rental room, the bare back of a mysterious man smoking a cigarette in the window a stashed and treasured place in his mind’s eye and he gasps, weakened with the violence these hands turn the pages of his inner book. “You call this love. A strange affection, but I cannot deny its existence to you.”</p><p>The memories move through his crew, the bonds of friendship worn like a favorite shirt and comforting and the Archon watches, and says, easily hurting Ryder without any intent, “There is love here too but it is not the same. How peculiar. What is the distinction?” He consumes the images, uncaring for how it distresses his prisoner, analyzing for the sake of tearing Ryder apart seam by seam, unweaving his fabric only to examine his material. “Happiness, you find it here against all odds.” The Archon comments lowly, watching Ryder look at his teammates all sitting, squished onto the couch for a movie, and then it changes for a drink in his hand, the clink against another’s glass, whiskey, and smooth reddened shadows on a dark, cunning brow in a club. “Is happiness worth the suffering? Do you kill us to survive or to protect these emotions?” They stare at the bloodshed of a base, the boots walking through Kett. </p><p>“A thousand memories, stored within you. I will enjoy taking them apart, finding what makes you so important and strong compared to your fellow humans.” The Archon says, tapping a slow finger on Ryder’s skull. They look at his last few months, the brilliant beauties of Andromeda bright and strange in this desolate and terrible situation and the dark, painful times worse the second time watched, somehow vibrant and equally as raw as experiencing them the first time. The Archon’s boundless patience terrifies Ryder, the child removing butterfly wings to own beauty only to watch the creature slowly die. </p><p>“I have watched hundreds of you, seen your little units you call ‘families’ and the loveless and the loved look for purpose. You crave uniqueness, you crave distinction, and you crave this love. Does achieving it once make your life worthwhile?” </p><p>Willing himself not to shed blind tears to the known and unknown sufferings of those who sat here before him, Ryder holds his words to his chest, unwilling to negotiate his humanity to their destroyer. </p><p>“Who is this SAM you speak with?” The questions no longer merely personally torture Ryder, only tell of another failure, another card stacked against his hand and his inevitable relinquishing of their classified information. Glowing in his eyes, times underneath the worlds come alive on the screen, Ryder raising his hand to interface with entire vaults, bringing the souls of planets to rebirth. The Kett leader watches, absorbs the concept and slowly murmurs, “Artificial intelligence… You are a merged being as well?” Finally the Archon returns his gaze to Ryder drawing his hand down to hold him by the throat, to look deep into his eyes, “You appear the same as all the others though… why not show you are above them? Why hide like a sheep? Why bother yourself with the monotony of the same toils of other humans? You can harness this universe’s entirety. You…” A vague but sinister understanding holds in his eyes, “And this SAM.” </p><p>“You will show me how you interface. To resist will only cause your body further pain and if I must use your companions against you, then you will be witness to their unavoidable demise.” He promises, slapping Ryder with the situation, guts knotted and back humming with raw pain. He sucks in a shivering breath through his clenched teeth and the Archon says lowly next to his face, “I will start with the humans. You will comply, whether that comes before or after their deaths.”</p><p>Resistance crumbling, the dark hallow horror of helplessness and hopelessness carve his insides, following the curves of his ribs, spooning out everything, all his prim and proper ways, his pride, his optimism, his faith. He folds, because he does not have the guts and assurance to pretend he has any other option and with a timid shivering motion, he agrees to perform for the prison guard if for only the security of more time. </p><p>“The power of this universe lies within the Remnant’s structures, more so than a simple game of changing the weather like you’ve done, but of complete transformation. Because it runs deep through the veins of every planet, there must be a center that unites all of that control and that must be accessed within Meridian.” The Archon tells Ryder, unafraid to share knowledge with his enemy, proving the height of his upper hand, the angle of their power dynamics. On trembling legs, Ryder follows, free to walk on his own, assumed complacent in his loyalty, in his capture. Each step is a strange mixture of betrayal, disbelief and agony, the balls of his feet protesting deftly his weight and his muscles sagging with residual suffering but it is his soul crying out for his defiance, charged in his submission that hurts most. The brief torment he endured, it was nothing more than the greeting card of the Archon’s tests, but still he feels sunken in, wilted, only gathering a minimum of his surroundings. “I have collected many things but being unable to test their relevance, they’ve sat here, under my inspection.”</p><p>Ryder stops, reflexes giving distance, darkness settling on his expression, in the weight beneath his eyes, the misery in the line of his mouth. If the Archon thinks anything of him standing just out of reach, he doesn’t say anything, his expression as telling as a wall. “Many items I have watched you work with, studied your interaction afterwards. Nothing of interest now, the average technology for the average planet. But this,” He raises both hands, shows off the slab of dark material with its glowing triangular center. “Has yet to be explored. Untouched, it must hold my long awaited answers.” He steps from the front and center and offers it to Ryder who only glowers weakly beneath his brows. </p><p>“Heed my warning, Pathfinder, I will not ask twice.” It booms through the room, hitting ceiling and rattling Ryder’s weak rebellion and he steps forward, raising a hand, willing SAM to interface, fingertips coming alive with recognition from the relic. </p><p>“Are you certain, Pathfinder?” SAM asks, and Ryder swallows, choking on the dryness of his own throat, and rasps, “Yes.” </p><p>Permission granted, the lights extend, greeting Ryder’s hand, his known presence, and it activates the relic, bringing power on from within so it can rise and expand the lights, gliding backwards. SAM informs them, “I’ll overlay the chart we uncovered in the vault on Eos.” The orange webs from Ryder’s hand begin to interact with small blue outlines in their universe and the Archon, through a breath of amazement says, “Meridian.” It spirals into existence, a rising tower of ancient technology, coordinates reading through and delivering them an exact position in space. </p><p>“We have touched every corner of this universe. Only by activating the map were we to be allowed access to Meridian’s real location. A hidden privilege.”</p><p>Lowering his hand, Ryder lets the webs fall away, vanishing them, and trembles deeply, vividly aware of his lapse in heroic splendor, his fall from grace, the tumble into ruins starting with him and his collapse for the enemy’s direct benefit. His teammates, their already imagined disappointment chills his blood, and he feels his knees jelly beneath him at just the envisioning of their expressions at his surrender to a murderous hostile merely to keep them from his grasp longer. Noise yanked from him, his feet kick the air as his breath is squeezed out of him in the Archon’s hold by his neck off the floor. </p><p>“I can sense your inner conflict, Pathfinder. All this torment is ultimately irrelevant but it should appease you that I even acknowledge your pathetic fight against the inevitable. To be so weak,” The Archon looks him over again, the hands trying to peel free fingers bruising vulnerable flesh and lifting knees, “So small in the grand scheme of everything and still taking that smallness to such greatness.” He begins to walk, leading them back to the dreaded chair, “You must be the reason I lost the Asari ark. Bringing to my fate challenge, puzzles, highlighting this moment in the dull longevity of slowly annihilating the Angara, I will remember your existence when you’ve long turned to dust…” </p><p>Cheeks hot, the hard surface of the chair slams the air out of him, awkwardly bending him and he protests laying back, aching, tender. </p><p>“But this universe is mine, Pathfinder-“ </p><p>Tunneling, distant, an explosion ripples, the boom, then the sweeping alarm. Slowly turning, the Archon listens, then looks down on Ryder who is holding his bruised ribs, heaving, uncomposed, unraveled and narrows his eyes, “Your allies were not all captured?” </p><p>The far door opens, a voice calling, “Lord Archon!” </p><p>“The years of monotony pale to this time with your presence.” He says lowly, reflective but there lacks negativity although his lowered guard proves him unsuspecting. Raising his hand, his minion device returns to his side and he sets the force field back in place, “I will return, Pathfinder. I anticipate taking you apart after I kill your companions.” He walks from Ryder’s viewpoint, leaving him blown out, frozen in his state of discomfort and trying to process. At first it starts numb, tingling, the solitude confusing and eerie. </p><p>Then within, like he can’t stop the nightmares, he sees the countless ways his teammates will perish with him laying prone, unable to help. The blood sucking, bone breaking weight of experiments meant to push limits till death consumes, the brevity when boredom sets in and the ending happens in the flash of an eye. A scream wells, scratching his insides, desperate to get out, and rakes up into his thoughts like a hot red blade. Will they know nothing of each other’s last moments or will the Archon truly make him watch as he destroys everything Ryder’s been able to protect till this grand failure?</p><p>“Pathfinder.” </p><p>SAM’s voice startles him internally but the soothing calm of his tone settles the jumpiness of his heart, and suddenly he is just back in the present moment. “Upon entering the Archon’s chambers we have been without contact with the rest of our team but there is a high probability that the explosion we just heard was Pathfinder Raeka.” </p><p>Ryder listens, but doesn’t understand what the information will change. </p><p>“She might be offering us a distraction, or her course may have altered since we last communicated.”</p><p>His powerlessness causes the distress to curdle his words and he thinks, “What am I supposed to do, SAM?”</p><p>“Until we are outside of the Archon’s chambers, we will not be able to provide support. We must-“</p><p>“I can’t escape his force field!” Panic tightens his throat, suffocation hardening the line of his air supply, tears behind his eyes hitting like harsh waves. “It’ll be too late if he releases me twice-“</p><p>“The Archon did mention a way to deactivate the field.”</p><p>Pausing, Ryder tries to recapture memories from listening to his captor’s voice but as if his instinct is to shield his psyche, he can’t recall. The inner flinch of critique whips him and he would shake his head if possible, “I can’t- I can’t- remember.. I’m-“</p><p>“The Archon said the field reacts to living matter. If it can no longer read any signs of life, it may be possible to disable it without needing external assistance.” </p><p>The pause is not for effect, only allowing Ryder’s understanding to fill in the space and when he thinks nothing, a blank slate of worry, SAM elaborates, “If you were to-“</p><p>“Die?” </p><p>The word guts him, a heavy rock in water, and as it sinks, nausea rippling through to his buzzing limbs, SAM says calmly, “As you know, my access to your physiology allows me to enhance your vital signals when required… I can also do the opposite. After stopping your heart, I will attempt to resuscitate, of course.”</p><p>One word catches, and feebly, Ryder repeats it, “Attempt…”</p><p>“It is merely to account for the small percentage of an unlikely complication. It will reset your implant, although reconnection will be immediate. Freedom from this field will allow you to provide your teammates the necessary support in order to flee the Verakan.”</p><p>The inherited title that claimed his father, claimed his future, that dresses him, tells him what to do, how to do it, who to associate with, who not to associate with, and forces responsibility too grand for one man to successfully carry without cracking or dropping something finally asks for the last thing he has left. He will have buried his family, given up a lover, killed and fought war to wear white and now he will have died to be a Pathfinder. </p><p>“I don’t want to die, SAM-“</p><p>“You will not feel anything, Pathfinder.”</p><p>“That’s not the problem, SAM!” He shouts, the words bouncing against his skull. </p><p>The AI thinks a moment but eventually voices Ryder’s other rising fear, “We do not know if we have much time, Pathfinder. I will do my utmost to protect you and your body.”</p><p>Despite his protests, despite being against the idea completely, he trusts SAM and knows the AI tells the rawest truths possible of him. Not even able to appreciate a final moment with his body, no wringing his hands, no relief in pressing a thumb to an old shoulder wound, all he can believe in is the assurance that if he survives, he will be granted the humbling second chance to make right his biggest mistake yet. </p><p>“Alright- I- just- can- should I leave-“ It chokes him, and he tries again, “Should I leave messages to everyone?” He wasn’t ready, hadn’t crafted feelings unsaid into a lasting letter of his presence. Thinking of his father, the protected memories of places where love was so evident, Ryder finally understands all the affection that was meant to be put into language but never found the chance. The arguments, the demands to be told, the untimely life Alec Ryder led contrasts the man walking to the beach, fondly looking at his family, wanting nothing more than to kiss his wife and encourage his children in the normalcy of the everyday. Not the goodbye at the door where all the weight of his love is passed to a child’s shoulders before he leaves in case of the worst but the ruffle of hair and the casual, ‘Proud of you.’</p><p>Ryder sees Reyes greeting him casually as he stands in the doorway to his private room in Tartarus. </p><p>
  <em>“I was hoping you’d stop by.”</em>
</p><p>Was there love between them, in those unspoken places? Questions unasked, things left to interpretation, were those unsurmountable unknowns or two people agreeing nothing but the unlocked door and the waiting on the other end would speak more to devotion? </p><p>A private language between his mother and father, the fond, thinly exasperated, ‘You’re late.’ And the loving, apologetic, ‘I know.’ Was that a confession? Willingness to share a private space, the rooftop above the world where a confidential hope existed, he was awarded entry into a place typically men keep to themselves and then given a place for his own that told him their differences were not too drastic to prevent connection.</p><p>“What would you like to say?” SAM asks and Ryder tries to find the courage he felt was so embedded into his person when the mission began. It is weak, withering, a plant without sunlight but it is alive, if barely. </p><p>“No, never-nevermind. I’ll tell- I’ll tell them all myself.”</p><p>“Alright.” SAM agrees, and lets Ryder one last controlled breath before he says, “I’m stopping your heart-“ </p><p>A tear drops down his immobilized face. </p><p>“Now.” </p><p>The world goes black.</p>
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